Noose
by SirLancelotTheBrave
Summary: "They had always joked that Aramis's womanizing would get him hanged. They'd just never imagined it might actually happen." When Aramis is accused of sleeping with a highborn lady, the other Musketeers scramble to prove his innocence. But is he innocent? Can they get to the bottom of it before Aramis hangs? And why is Milady lurking in the shadows? Established Porthos/Aramis
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is just something that's been buzzing around my brain for a while. I'm a tad nervous to post it since I haven't finished the rest of it yet, but I decided to go ahead and put it up. I've never posted a story I hadn't already finished before. Hopefully the rest of the story will fall into place nicely and not contradict anything already posted and I won't have to abandon it. It will ideally end up 3-4 chapters long, maybe more.**

**As always, I don't own these amazing characters. But oh, how I wish I did. **

* * *

They had always joked that Aramis's womanizing would get him hanged.

They'd just never imagined it might actually _happen._

The day started out like any other. Aramis and Porthos were sparring in the center of the yard, each to all appearances doing their best to skewer the other with their rapiers. Aramis was faster, but Porthos was stronger, so the match was turning into quite the spectacle. Several off-duty Musketeers had opened up a betting pool. Newer recruits placed their odds on Porthos. Athos had smirked and bet on Aramis, raising an eyebrow in response to D'Artagnan's questioning look.

A cry went up from the spectators as Aramis managed somehow to duck beneath Porthos's dagger and twist the large sword artfully from his grasp. He straightened and bowed theatrically as the men who'd bet on Porthos let out a groan.

"You knew Aramis would win," D'Artagnan said accusingly. "Why didn't you warn them?"

"Of course I knew," Athos told him dryly. "Porthos rarely beats Aramis in a duel. He's better suited to taking on a crowd at once. Always forgets to watch the footwork, and Aramis is fast." He accepted his winnings from the other men with a nod. "And why would I tell them? They want to waste their money betting, that's their decision. Someone ought to profit from it."

Aramis and Porthos came wandering over, Porthos trying to wipe the mud from his sword. "Could've at least kept it out of the puddle," he told Aramis reproachfully as they neared.

"I was a bit busy trying to make sure you didn't impale me," Aramis retorted. "How was I to have time to judge where your blade would land? Honestly." He grinned easily at D'Artagnan. "Would you like to have a go?"

Before D'Artagnan could respond, there was a commotion at the entrance. A dozen Red Guards streamed into the courtyard, heading straight toward them. The four of them grouped together protectively, but the guards ignored them, one of them elbowing straight past Athos and grabbing Aramis's arm with enough force to bruise.

Porthos growled and shoved him back, moving to stand in front of Aramis, prompting two other guards to grab him. A third joined them and together they managed to restrain the large man as the leader yanked Aramis free. Other Musketeers were gathering now, dangerous glints in their eyes. D'Artagnan moved to draw his sword, but Athos's hand on his arm stopped him. Above them, a door opened with a crash and then Treville appeared at the top of the stairs.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, voice hard. "Let my man go at once."

"Can't," the captain of the Red Guards said, sneering. "Cardinal's orders. We're here to take this man to the Châtelet immediately."

"On what charges?" Treville challenged.

"I'm not at liberty to say," the man said dismissively. "You'll have to take it up with the Cardinal. The orders came direct from him. We going to have trouble?" His gaze wandered over to Porthos, glaring daggers at him and trying to wrench free from his captors.

"Porthos, enough," Treville commanded. For a second, it looked as though Porthos would disobey. Then with a curt nod of his head he stepped back, gaze now locked on Aramis, who looked distinctly nervous.

"Thank you kindly," the insolent man said, tipping his hat in mock salute. Nodding to his men, they dragged Aramis from the courtyard. Porthos made a sound partway between rage and dismay, glaring up at Treville.

Treville met his gaze steadily. "Get your things. Athos, D'Artagnan, you too. We're going to see the Cardinal, now."

* * *

The Cardinal gazed at them impassively as Treville demanded to know the charges against Aramis. His gaze seemed to land most on Porthos, perhaps because the large man gave off an aura of barely contained rage. He was like a crouching tiger, preparing to pounce, and the Cardinal seemed wary of him.

"The charges against your man are rather severe, I'm afraid," the Cardinal said. "Terrible scandal. Apparently this man Aramis has debauched one of the women of the court. I won't give you her name," he said sharply, sensing the captain's question. "But she is of extremely high birth and her husband has not taken kindly to the offense. He insists the culprit be hanged as soon as possible." Porthos sucked in a breath at the statement, and Athos shot him a look that said they were not going to attack the Cardinal in his own chambers.

Treville ordered them to go see Aramis as soon as they left the Cardinal. He himself was off to speak to the King, though Athos had a sinking feeling the King would not be intervening. How could Aramis have been so stupid?

Aramis was leaning against the wall of his cell when they arrived. His left eye was black and swollen shut. Porthos hissed in fury, one hand reaching through the bars to clutch at Aramis's shirt as the man moved over, chains clanking on his wrists and ankles. The chains were excessive, and Athos knew it wasn't a good sign.

"What are the charges?" Aramis asked anxiously.

"They didn't tell you?" D'Artagnan sounded appalled. Aramis shook his head, his gaze meeting Athos's. Porthos's hands had moved to grip Aramis's, and he growled savagely when he realized two of his fingers were broken.

Athos glanced around the hallway, checking there were no guards within earshot. "There is an accusation that you have defiled a noblewoman. A very high born noblewoman." Aramis's eyes widened slightly at the implication.

"You don't think…?" he whispered fearfully. Porthos glanced back at Athos, confusion written on his features. Athos realized with a jolt that _Porthos did not know_. Shit.

He had to tell them. They needed to know. If it were true, if the Cardinal had found out, Athos had no idea how they would save Aramis from the gallows, but if they were to have any chance the others needed to know the full story. He sighed, fury warring with concern in his chest. There was no way to put this delicately. "Aramis slept with the Queen."

D'Artagnan's jaw dropped and Porthos made a choking sound, yanking his hands away from Aramis as if he had been burned. There was fury written on his face. "Tell me you didn't," he spat, staring at Aramis with a look akin to disgust. "Tell me you weren't so stupid!"

Aramis said nothing, and with a howl of pure rage Porthos whirled and stormed out of the hallway, heading for the exit. Athos jerked his head meaningfully and D'Artagnan followed quickly.

Aramis was staring after him with a lost expression. "What am I going to do?" His voice was full of despair.

"For now, you will stay here," Athos said practically. "I will return and speak to Treville. Perhaps the King will spare you." Aramis glanced at him doubtfully. 'It is possible there has been some mistake. Do not give up hope. I will return when I know more." He clasped Aramis's uninjured hand gently. Aramis was a fool, but he was still his brother. He might have brought this on himself, but Athos would be damned if he would let him hang for it.

* * *

"The King will not intercede." Athos nodded. He hadn't really expected him to. "Nor would he give me the name of the noblewoman involved. He seemed highly insulted and implied perhaps I could not keep control of my men." Athos winced internally. For the King to be questioning Treville things must be really serious. He had hoped for a misunderstanding, but with every moment things appeared increasingly dire.

Treville sighed, slumping into his chair. He looked old. "Did he do it?" he asked Athos morosely. Athos did not reply. Treville shook his head. "Go and get some rest. In the morning, we will see what we can do for Aramis."

Athos nodded and left the office. He needed to find Porthos. When he'd emerged from the prison D'Artagnan had been standing awkwardly against the wall, a bruise forming on his cheekbone. Porthos had been nowhere in sight.

Athos had sent D'Artagnan home before speaking with Treville. It was already late. He himself wandered vaguely, trying to decide where to look for Porthos. His feet took him to Aramis's lodgings, and he noted with very little surprise that a candle glowed within.

Porthos looked up as he entered the door. The room looked like a herd of wild stallions had stampeded through it. Clothes lay slashed on the floor. The mattress was cut into ribbons. Shards of glass from Aramis's only mirror littered the ground. "Did you do this?" Athos asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped through the debris.

Porthos shook his head. "Guards." There was something golden in his hand. Noticing Athos's interest, he opened it to reveal Aramis's cross. "He took it off last night and forgot to put it back on. I grabbed it this morning. Don't know why I bothered saving it for him, though. Should've dumped it down a well." Porthos's voice was bitter and cold. "You here to tell me to forgive him?"

Athos shrugged. "Are you really surprised?" He had been furious at first, but he knew full well Aramis was totally incorrigible. He'd expected Porthos to be more understanding than himself, owing to the nature of his relationship with Aramis.

Porthos's face twisted viciously, an undercurrent of unidentifiable emotion entering his voice. "The bloody Queen. He promised me, did you know? Fucking promised me he wouldn't pursue her, of all people. Now it'll get him hanged. And you know something? He deserves it."

Athos couldn't keep the utter shock off his face. Porthos's voice was icy and unforgiving. He had never seen the other man like this before, and honestly, it frightened him. "You don't mean that."

Porthos rose to his feet, eyes black in the dim light. "Don't I?" he hissed. "Leave me out of this, Athos. I won't risk my neck for him, not this time." Porthos shoved past him. At the doorway he paused, allowing the cross to slip to the ground. Then he vanished.

Athos stared after him, stunned. What the hell was going on? Porthos never turned his back on Aramis, _never_, no matter what their friend did. Porthos _loved_ him, for God's sake. He recalled that odd tone as Porthos had told him Aramis deserved to hang. He thought he recognized it…

Then it hit him. Porthos was afraid.

Porthos knew from the moment Athos told them about the Queen that there was probably no way to save Aramis. He was terrified of losing the other man, but faced with the unavoidable fact of it, of his helplessness, that fear was translating to rage. He would not help them. He was too angry to even understand that he wanted to, too angry to see that he wasn't really angry at all. They would have to save Aramis without Porthos's assistance.

Athos walked slowly to the door. As he left the room, he stooped to collect the small golden cross from the floor.

* * *

**I'm quite anxious about this story, so reviews and feedback would be great! **


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Well, I've managed another chapter at least and I've got a clearer idea of where this is going now. Thank you all so much for your reviews! You've really encouraged me to keep going with this. I'm working a lot in the next few days and between that and homework I don't know how much time I'll have to write, but I'll endeavor to post a chapter a day.**

**There has been a lot of concern about Porthos and whether he will forgive Aramis, so I've tried to include a little taste of what's to come there at the end of this chapter. **

* * *

He could hear her skirts rustling across the stone floor as she approached. "Is it done?"

"It is." Her voice was steel. "Will it work?"

"For my purposes, yes. The King already believes Treville is losing his hold on his men. Or did you mean will it work for your desires?" She said nothing. "If your goal is revenge, Milady, it most certainly will."

"They could save him. Will that not interfere with your plans?" She was standing just behind him now, but he did not raise his eyes from the alter.

"If they do, it will only strengthen my position all the more. Three of Treville's best men, going rogue to rescue a renegade Musketeer who defiled an honorable woman? They'll be hunted down like dogs. No, I rather hope the fools try to save him."

"Two," Milady said suddenly. "Two of his men. I was watching outside the prison. One of them was particularly unhappy with the prisoner. He punched D'Artagnan in the face and stormed off. If there is a rescue attempt, I doubt he will be part of it."

He looked up at her at last. "You have watched them. Will there be an attempt?"

She smirked. He thought in that moment she was as dangerous as a viper lying coiled in the grass. "Athos will not leave his friend to hang. Right now, they are trying to prove his innocence, I believe. But once they fail, they will likely fight to save him."

"You are certain they will fail?"

"The evidence is in place." Her voice was steel once more. "Athos will not find anything but the most damning of proof, provided our good friend upholds his end of the bargain."

He allowed himself a tight smile. "Oh, don't worry. He will. Tell me, Milady," he said, rising from his position before the alter. "Which outcome would you prefer? Athos and his friends hunted like dogs, or drowning in guilt because they failed to save their fellow?"

She stared at him, lip curled, clearly deciding how much to reveal. "I hope he fails to save his brother," she spat at last. He sensed her personal grudge at work and did not question her further. She had done as he asked with no argument. He was not going to initiate one now, not when their interests at last coincided. The plot had been his, but the target had been chosen at her suggestion. He had not inquired too deeply as to her reasoning.

"Then I shall arrange it so there will be no possibility of rescue." He offered the gift, and her hard smile told him it was accepted. She would be far easier to manage in the future if he satisfied her hatreds now and then.

"If you have no further use for me, I shall retire to watch events unfold." He nodded, and she offered him the barest of curtseys. "Good evening, Cardinal."

As he watched her retreating form, Cardinal Richelieu allowed himself to savor the victory so nearly in his grasp. With Treville discredited, his influence over the King would be absolute.

* * *

Athos made his way back to his own lodgings. He wanted nothing more than to drown

himself in drink until he couldn't feel anything, couldn't remember any of this, but he knew he couldn't do that. Aramis's life was on the line, and he would be no help to him staggering drunk. He sighed as he entered his chambers, resigning himself to a sleepless night.

There was someone already there.

In the center of his room stood a figure swathed in a massive cloak, hood concealing their features. Athos had his gun trained on them before they so much as twitched. "Who are you?"

The figure pushed back its hood and Athos had to scramble to keep from dropping his primed pistol on the floor.

"Your Majesty?" He was so shocked it took him a good thirty seconds to remember he ought to bow.

"Please, don't bother," Queen Anne told him anxiously. "I haven't long. I inquired about your lodgings at the garrison and was directed here. If I don't return to the palace soon my absence may be noted."

Athos nodded, moving to light a candle. In the flickering light, the Queen's face was pinched and nervous. "May I ask why you are here, you Majesty?" Athos asked respectfully.

"I have been told that Aramis is in the Châtelet on charges of adultery against a woman of the court. I have come to tell you that the charges were not brought by my husband."

Athos gaped at her. "Are you sure?" he asked urgently, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.

"I am positive. Louis has been carrying on about this poor woman to me all afternoon. The Cardinal himself came to speak to me about approaching the lady and offering her comfort and solidarity. Neither can possibly know. Louis is not so accomplished an actor to keep such a thing concealed." Athos said nothing, mind racing. "I don't know if this helps you. I do not believe Aramis is guilty, but I have not known him very long. Could he have-?"

"No," Athos croaked, finding his voice. "Even Aramis couldn't have seduced a noblewoman that quickly. It's not even a month since the convent, and he hasn't been stationed in the palace or anywhere he could meet nobility. If the charges are not related to that particular mis-" he paused, recalling present company, "… indiscretion at the convent, then they are false."

The Queen smiled, a relieved expression on her face. "That is excellent news. Perhaps it is all a misunderstanding!"

Athos hated to ruin her hopes, but he sensed it would not be that simple. "No charges like these would be brought for a misunderstanding," he said slowly. "These have been well-planned and masterfully executed."

The queen caught his meaning with a gasp. "You think he is being set up?" she whispered.

"I think the Musketeers have made life very difficult for the Cardinal these last few months, and his influence is weakening. I am told the King has been just this afternoon begun questioning Treville's authority. An incident such as this would cast the Musketeers in a very poor light indeed and increase Richelieu's power."

"What can we do?" the queen asked, voice steady with determination.

Athos felt a rush of respect for the monarch. "You, your Majesty, can do nothing unfortunately. We cannot risk the Cardinal realizing you suspect him. It might prompt him to investigate why you are so suspicious, and were he to discover what happened in the convent Aramis would certainly be hanged. D'Artagnan and I will search for evidence that Aramis has been framed." The Queen looked disappointed, but apparently she understood his reasoning, for she nodded.

"I will at least urge my husband to delay any decisions on the case for as long as possible. I will say it is for the lady's sake, so she may distance herself from the scandal of a trial."

"Very well. Allow me to escort you back to the palace then, your Majesty."

The Queen drew herself up regally. "Absolutely not. I arrived on my own, and I shall return on my own. You must rest so you may begin your investigation early tomorrow. I will escort myself."

"Your Majesty, I really must insist-" Athos began, but the Queen cut him off.

"You will not escort me. That is an order." She softened her commanding tone with a small smile. Drawing her hood, she swept from the room like a shadow. Athos counted to twenty before slipping out after her. He had been ordered not to escort her, but she had said nothing about following. He'd be damned if he would allow the queen to wander the streets of Paris at this time of night without a guard. He would see that she made it to the palace unmolested.

* * *

Porthos was very drunk. He could tell from the way his hand kept missing the bottle of wine on the table in front of him. There appeared to be four of it. He made another wild lunge and succeeded only in batting the irritating object halfway across the tavern. He growled, and the serving girl hurrying over to reprimand him backed away in sudden fright. He shoved himself upright and staggered out into the street, clutching at the wall for support.

He was drunk enough that his anger was at last starting to boil down into shame and guilt. Whatever Aramis had done and whatever lies he had told, Porthos couldn't well leave him to hang, even if it was entirely his own fault. He was furious, and he might just break the other man's nose the next time he saw him, but he wasn't going to let him die_. _And he would withhold sex for a good three months as punishment. Maybe longer.

_Let's see if the Queen still fancies him with his perfect nose all smashed up_, he thought blearily, crashing into someone and slurring a hasty apology.

_Might've drunk a bit too much,_ he thought blearily. He didn't usually forget where he lived, did he? Right now nothing looked familiar. This was all Aramis's fault. He just had to go and sleep with the bloody Queen and get bloody well arrested and drive Porthos to drink far too much cheap wine. He'd promised Porthos to set his sights lower, but clearly that was a promise he hadn't kept. Porthos growled at the thought, sending several passers-by scurrying off in alarm.

His anger was like a living thing, a burning snake coiled in the pit of his stomach, but he was at least past the stage of thinking Aramis deserved to hang. Drunk as he was, the thought of Aramis at the end of a rope gave him an unpleasant sensation in his chest and a desire to murder someone, preferably whoever was threatening to harm his lover. His stupid, idiotic, soon to be punched in the face lover.

He tried not to recall the injuries peppering Aramis's body when they'd arrived in the prison, the hiss of pain when Porthos had jostled his broken fingers. He'd wait until Aramis had healed before he started hitting him. He shook his head doggedly, trying to get that sound out of his head. The thought of Aramis in pain was doing queer things to his stomach and chest.

No, tomorrow he'd have to find Athos and D'Artagnan and help them think of some way to rescue the damned fool. There would be a way. There _had_ to be a way. He refused to think of the alternative. How would Porthos break Aramis's nose if he was dead?

Nearby he spotted a pile of hay spilling out from behind the stables of a small, seedy inn. He couldn't remember how to get home, so he might as well sleep there before he passed out in the street. In the morning he would help save Aramis. He blacked out the instant he hit the crackling stalks, hoping blearily as he fell that he would wake at a reasonable hour and no one would rob him blind in the night.

* * *

**Sorry this chapter wasn't particularly exciting. I promise it'll pick up again next time, and maybe there will be something from Aramis's POV. Please let me know what you think. If you have any suggestions regarding plot or characterization, let me know in the comments :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Longer chapter today because I was feeling inspired. This story may stretch longer than I expected since I keep thinking of more things I want to include. Hope no one minds ;)**

* * *

At dawn Athos was awoken from his broken sleep by a knock at the door. A man stood there, dressed as a commoner but with an oddly official air. "Message for you," he said, presenting Athos with an envelope bearing the Queen's personal seal. The poorly disguised man then turned and left without another word. Athos prayed he hadn't been followed and returned to the bed to read the letter.

When D'Artagnan arrived shortly after, Athos had already learned the name of the lady involved in the case. The Comte de Mironne claimed his wife's honor had been compromised by Aramis. It was he who had brought the charges to the king. Ignoring the boy's impatient questions, he finished the missive with a sense of deep foreboding. When he was finished, he handed it over without a word.

As expected, D'Artagnan's reaction was far more extreme than his own. "He's to be executed tomorrow?" he asked, horrified. "What about a trial? This isn't justice! Why can't the queen do something?"

"It's really not all that surprising." Athos feels rather numb, picturing the words that laid out Aramis's sentence in his mind's eye. "The case involves the nobility. A trial would imply that the lady's word, and her husband's, are in doubt. The king could not afford to show any such lack of faith in his court."

"Well, what are we going to do?" D'Artagnan sounded rather hopeless, and Athos felt a surge of determination to wipe the boy's doubts away.

"We will simply have to find evidence that Aramis has been framed."

D'Artagnan looked at him in confusion. "But you said he did sleep with… you know. Couldn't he also have slept with this Comtesse?"

"Aramis has not had the opportunity to be off wooing noblewomen lately. He cannot have met the Comtesse de Mironne. She arrived in the city only three weeks ago, and he has not had palace duty in that period. Moreover, he has been otherwise occupied. Therefore, he is being set up in an attempt to bring disgrace on the Musketeers." He could see the whirl of questions behind the lad's eyes and raised a hand to forestall them. "There is no time for discussion, D'Artagnan. If Aramis is being framed, then whoever is behind it will have covered their tracks, and covered them well. We must work quickly if we are to have any chance of proving his innocence in time."

"And if we don't?" D'Artagnan's voice was low, and Athos could detect the hint of fear in the words.

He met the boy's gaze steadily, trying to inspire confidence. "Then we will fight to free him or die in the attempt."

He could see D'Artagnan's resolve stiffen as he nodded his understanding, and together they hurried out to investigate the Comte de Mironne and his wife.

Their type of investigating could more accurately be termed 'breaking and entering via the servants' entrance and sneaking through the Comte's Parisian manor like thieves,' but Athos couldn't be bothered with niceties today. Not with Aramis's neck on the line.

The manor was enormous, though not as large as Athos's childhood home, and arrayed in a logical, straightforward way that allowed them to sneak unnoticed through the first level, making use of servants' hallways and empty corridors. D'Artagnan had wanted to simply ask the servants if they had ever seen Aramis here, but Athos had shot him down on the grounds that if word of their investigations got back to the Comte he would complain to Treville, who would then have no choice but to forbid them to continue. They would continue regardless, of course, but it would be much simpler to avoid the hassle.

They were lucky that the Comte and his wife were currently being hosted at the castle by invitation of the king in sympathy of their situation. They'd taken their retinue and most of their servants, decreasing the risk of discovery. After a few wrong turns, Athos and D'Artagnan made it to the second level and found themselves in the Comtesse's chambers.

Without a word they began searching the room for evidence. D'Artagnan was buried in the massive wardrobe when Athos heard him call over. Turning, he saw the boy holding a long blue sash in his hands. "Isn't this Aramis's?"

Athos took it, inspecting it closely. "I believe it is. Was he wearing it yesterday?"

D'Artagnan frowned, thinking. "No, he wasn't," he said slowly. "He was complaining that his belt was too loose without it underneath, remember?"

"I also remember him saying he had left it at Porthos's lodgings. If that is true, it could easily have been stolen to plant as false evidence. They've both been staying at Aramis's all week." He frowned down at the sash before folding it and tucking it into his jacket. If it had been planted, there was no point in leaving it to further incriminate Aramis.

He wandered over to a writing desk and began flipping through the drawers aimlessly. The presence of the sash told him someone was highly invested in framing Aramis, and they knew what to take to implicate him. For a brief second, he wondered if Aramis was truly guilty, but then he shook off the doubt. He knew full well Aramis had not slept away from Porthos since they'd returned from the convent. Perhaps it was guilt for sleeping with the queen, but he had been unusually faithful these last few weeks. Athos was reasonably certain he hadn't had any women at all, and certainly none that were recent conquests.

His thoughts cut off as he caught sight of a sheet of paper with Aramis's name at the top. He pulled it out. It seemed to be a love letter, written in a woman's hand and addressed to Aramis. He must have made a sound, because D'Artagnan was at his side in an instant.

"What is it?" he asked, frowning at Athos's suddenly pale features. He took the note. "Oh. Well you said they would have done everything possible to make it look real."

Athos shook his head, finding his voice. "It's not that." He stared at the sheet in shock. "It's just that I know this handwriting."

"Oh?" D'Artagnan asked curiously. "Do you know the Comtesse de Mironne?"

"No, but I know this is not her hand." He stared down at it, an icy hand grasping his heart. "It is my wife's."

* * *

Porthos was at something of a loss. He'd found himself face to face with an angry chicken when he woke that morning, and everything had gone downhill from there. He'd escaped the furious fowl only to realize with a jolt that it was nearly noon. Cursing everything from alcohol to time itself, he'd leapt to his feet and all but sprinted to the garrison.

There he'd been told that neither Athos nor D'Artagnan had been seen since yesterday. A frantic rush to each of their lodgings had told him they had both already departed for the day, and he had absolutely no idea where they had gone. He'd felt panic burn away some of his residual anger. He wanted to help free Aramis, but he hadn't the faintest idea where to start.

Feeling useless, Porthos had wandered the streets aimlessly. He had a vague notion of going to the Court and asking if anyone had seen Athos or D'Artagnan, or maybe even heard anything about Aramis's case. Flea's people were everywhere. If anyone could find his missing friends, it was the beggar children of the Court of Miracles.

But his feet had a mind of their own, and instead of the Court he found himself standing before the Châtelet's barred gate. His anger made a feeble attempt to resurface, but the shame of inactivity had all but subdued it. He would certainly be angry again later, but right now there was no room for it. Worry and fear consumed his heart. If he couldn't help free Aramis, perhaps he could go speak to him. He was sure he'd get an apology the moment Aramis laid eyes on him, and while it wouldn't be nearly enough to satisfy him, it would be a start.

His mind made up, he strode into the prison. When he reached the hallway where Aramis was being held, he was stopped by a short, squat toad of a man wearing sergeant's bars and a nasty expression. "What are you doing here, Musketeer?"

"I'm here to see my friend," he growled. Something in the guard's face had him fighting the urge to squash him like an insignificant insect.

"He's sleeping," the guard informed him insolently.

"Then I'll wake him up," Porthos forced out between gritted teeth, shoving past the man before he gave in to the desire to throttle him.

The hallway was dark, and he could barely see inside the cell, but he could just make out a form lying on its side near the far wall, facing away from him. He coughed loudly, hoping to wake Aramis up, but the man didn't stir. Perhaps he was feigning sleep because he was angry with Porthos. Or maybe he was simply exhausted.

Porthos sighed in frustration. Pride told him not to speak first, but after a moment concern won out. "Aramis!" he called.

The man still didn't move. He frowned. Aramis was not a deep sleeper. He called again, more loudly, but there was still no response, even when he banged the hilt of his sword against the bars. Irritation was giving way now to apprehension. Porthos hurried back down the hallway and yanked the torch from its bracket. He shoved his arm through the bars, illuminating the cell. Aramis was still in shadow, but in the center of the room something gleamed wetly.

Blood.

Porthos roared, calling for Aramis to wake up, say something, anything. The fat guard appeared after a moment with several cronies and attempted to order him out. Porthos whirled on him and in seconds had him pinned against the wall, an arm pressed against his throat.

"What did you do to him?" he howled, fury coursing through his veins, fueled by a desperate, near-crippling fear. "What did you do?"

But there were more guards pulling him away, and Porthos couldn't fight them all. He threw several against walls and into one another, but there was always a new man to take the place of those he shook off, and soon enough they'd manage to get him outside once more.

"Throw him in the street!" the captain of the guard commanded. Beside him, the sergeant flashed Porthos a gloating smile. "Inform your friends, Musketeer, that the prisoner will be allowed no more visitors!"

"Won't be needing visitors anyway," the sergeant called gleefully. "He's to be hanged in the morning!"

The shock of that statement made Porthos hesitate long enough for two burly guards to grab him by the shoulders. He was tossed forcefully into the gutter, the gates slamming shut behind him with a clang. He jumped to his feet. _Hanged in the morning._ Treville had to be told about this immediately. _Hanged in the morning._ Maybe there was something he could do to protect Aramis. _Hanged in the morning._ He needed to get back to the garrison. _Hanged in the morning._ Porthos turned and ran.

* * *

Aramis lay in the darkness, shivering weakly. He'd woken a few minutes ago, and he already wished he hadn't. His body ached everywhere and there was blood in his hair, dripping unpleasantly down his face. He was fairly sure he had a concussion but it was very difficult to think straight. If he opened his eyes everything spun. The same was true for moving, so he simply lay there and waited.

It hadn't really come as a surprise. Red Guards had a reputation for this sort of thing. He'd been sitting in his dark cell, thinking longingly about food. There was no light at all save for the merest flicker from a torch down the hallway, but he'd been fairly sure it was breakfast time. No one had brought him anything to eat, but he was inclined to think he shouldn't base the time on that. He doubted very much he would be fed at all.

With a sigh, he'd let his head fall back against the wall, realizing it made no difference what time it was. He was stuck here until the trial, after which he would almost certainly be hanged. He had more or less resigned himself to it. He would fight, certainly, but he didn't really think he would manage to escape. He had just hoped Athos would realize it was pointless to try and save him and stop D'Artagnan from doing anything stupid. They shouldn't all die for his mistake.

_Both_, he'd corrected himself bitterly. _They shouldn't both die. There's only two of them_. It didn't seem likely that Porthos would be helping at this point.

The thought had brought despair washing over him once more and he'd clenched his fists, ignoring the protests from his broken fingers. The mere thought of his name was almost too painful. He had expected anger, betrayal, violence even, but he had never imagined Porthos would turn his back on him. God knew he deserved it, he just hadn't thought it was possible. He supposed even Porthos had a breaking point, and Aramis had simply found his. He couldn't fault the man for walking away; he had always known he wasn't good enough for his lover, and now Porthos knew it too. The knowledge of his own inadequacy hadn't made anything easier, though.

So he had sat and shivered against the cold rock wall, feeling lost and alone. He wanted the chance to apologize, to see Porthos one last time and tell him how sorry he was for everything, but he doubted he'd be given the chance. Porthos probably didn't want to even look at him. But God, what he wouldn't give for one more smile…

He'd been snapped out of his reverie by the sound of heavy footsteps in the passage outside. He tensed at the sound pushing, himself up warily. Three guards had appeared at the bars, leering at him brutishly.

"Have a good sleep, Musketeer?" the one in the lead had asked. He drawled the word insultingly. "Suppose this is a step down from the boudoirs of noblewomen."

His compatriots had guffawed sycophantically. Aramis refused to be goaded and had said nothing. "Heard some news today, Musketeer. About your trial. Want to hear it?"

Aramis's face must have betrayed his sudden interest, for the man had smirked and beckoned him closer. Aramis walked across the cell to listen, chains clanking, careful to keep well back from the bars. The man leaned forward, and Aramis had been able to smell the wine on his breath even from halfway across the room. "Heard there ain't going to be one," he said with a cruel wink.

"No trials for no-good Musketeers who get ideas above their stations," one of the others had added, smirking. Aramis felt his stomach plunge. "King's going to make an example of you. Tomorrow at dawn." The third man mimed a noose about his neck and they laughed.

Aramis had felt rather faint. It was one thing to rationally tell yourself you would die, and another to be faced with the incontrovertible news of your own demise. The first man was speaking again, and Aramis had struggled to focus on what was being said through the rushing sound in his ears.

"Course, tomorrow seems so far away," sneered the lead man, who he could see now was a sergeant "Did you know that in the old days, a man who defiled a noble lady was tortured before he was killed? Shame to let the old ways die out. I say hangings a bit quick, don't you agree, boys?"

His friends had nodded, cruel smiles plastered across their faces. Aramis had wondered if there was any point fighting when he would die tomorrow anyway. Probably not. "So we thought maybe we ought to a teach you a lesson of our own."

He caught the gleam of keys in the man's hand, saw the pitiless look in his eyes. Then the three men had stalked in, and all he could remember was pain.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but when he came to a few minutes ago he thought he had heard Porthos's voice and the ringing of steel. But that was impossible. Porthos hated him now.

_Porthos hates me._

The thought filled his aching head like a rising tide, chasing away even the fear of his approaching execution. What did it matter, when Porthos hated him? The thought pounded through his skull like hammers, and rather than fighting it he closed his eyes and let the pain and despair pull him into darkness.

* * *

**Let me know what you think! I may not get a chapter up tomorrow since I'm working late and I usually write at night, but I'll do my best. Please review :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Not sure how I feel about this chapter. Got home from work at midnight and decided to knock it out. And now it's 4 in the morning. I'm responsible. Sorry if it's not as interesting as the others. The next chapter should be getting to the exciting parts. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! This story is something of a struggle for me, but your kind words give me the motivation to keep at it.**

* * *

Athos and D'Artagnan crept silently into the Comte de Mironne's study, closing the door behind them. D'Artagnan knew he was watching Athos like some feral creature that might turn on him at any moment, but he couldn't help it. He hadn't received any explanation for Athos's previous comment, and the older Musketeer had refused to elaborate. A letter addressed to Aramis in his dead-but-not-dead wife's handwriting? D'Artagnan didn't want to push him, but he was totally lost. So he'd simply followed him silently as Athos crept into the study, hoping his friend would explain in his own time.

Athos was wordlessly shifting through the papers on the Comte's desk, so D'Artagnan began to explore the room, peering at bookshelves, searching for anything that would implicate the Comte for framing Aramis. He caught sight of fresh ashes in the room's small fireplace. There seemed to be something scattered among them. Frowning, he knelt down and sifted through the cinders. He caught hold of something and shouted for Athos.

He brushed the ash gently from the scrap of parchment, struggling to read the charred fragment. Giving up, he passed it to Athos and began searching for more. "Can you read it?" he asked, fighting the urge to sneeze as clouds of ash rose into the air.

"I can make out a few words." Athos's voice was steady once again, the panicked note it had held in the Comtesse's bedroom faded. "It is not clear who this was written by, but it seems to be a promise of payment for services rendered. Payment to be delivered upon… it cuts off there."

D'Artagnan unearthed another fragment with a soft cry of victory. This one was smaller, but the writing was more or less intact. "Aramis is mentioned in this one," he informed Athos. "Once the Musketeer is dead the arrangement will be fulfilled as agreed. There's a bit about a girl? Might say daughter? Or sister? It isn't clear." D'Artagnan stared down into the ashes wonderingly. The scraps of paper laid bare a conspiracy.

"I do believe we have just discovered significant evidence of Aramis's innocence," Athos said quietly. "Careless of the Comte not to cover his tracks."

As if in response to his statement, loud footsteps suddenly echoed down the corridor outside. The men leapt to their feet, Athos pushing D'Artagnan towards the heavy floor length curtains framing the window. Moments later a large, middle-aged man appeared in the doorway.

D'Artagnan could tell at once that this was the Comte de Mironne despite the man's average appearance. It was something in his manner as he waved off the servants fluttering anxiously behind him. He closed the door, entering the study alone. He kept casting furtive glances around the room and was clearly nervous. The Comte went instantly to the fireplace and began poking through the cinders with a disgusted expression. He discovered an additional scrap of parchment and shoved it into his pocket. Apparently satisfied, he stood. Only then did D'Artagnan realize Athos no longer stood beside him.

The Comte turned and found himself face to face with Athos's blade. "I would advise you not to scream." D'Artagnan pushed his way free of the heavy cloth, wondering idly why Athos never saw fit to clue him in to their plans, especially the obviously insane ones.

"Who are you?" the Comte asked nervously, eyes flickering to the Musketeer insignia on D'Artagnan's shoulder. He seemed too frightened to look directly at Athos.

Athos ignored the question. "Get the note," he ordered. D'Artagnan obeyed, fishing the note out of the nobleman's pocket. To his disappointment, it was utterly indecipherable and therefore useless. "What exactly were you trying to hide, monsieur?" Athos asked, his tone icy.

"I don't have to answer the likes of you," the man spluttered. "I am the Comte de Mironne!" Athos's lips twitched up into a terrifying parody of a smile.

"And I am the Comte de la Fere," he told the man, whose face paled noticeably. "I do believe I outrank you, but let's not stand on dignity. Tell me why you tried to frame one of the King's Musketeers."

"I don't know what you are talking about." Athos held up the two recovered scraps of parchment, making sure the Comte could see them clearly.

"Don't lie to me." His voice was calm and even, his face expressionless once more. The effect was terrifying. "Assist us in or investigations and perhaps the King will not strip you of your lands for your lies." He pressed the point of his sword against the Comte's throat, drawing a drop of blood. "I'm sure if you refuse to cooperate I could even convince the king to avenge the slight to your wife's honor caused by your slander. The queen would surely take up the cause and demand you be stripped of your title as well as your lands for your transgression."

D'Artagnan felt a rush of admiration for the older man, tinged with a healthy dose of awed fear. Athos was scary when he was angry.

The Comte seemed to think so too, for a moment later his face crumpled slightly. "I had no choice!" he babbled desperately. Athos lowered his sword slightly, allowing the older man to stumble to the windowsill, supporting his weight on its broad ledge. "I never saw that Musketeer in my life! He is innocent. It was all arranged. Don't you see, I lost all my family's money! My only hope was to arrange a beneficial marriage for my sister and live off her husband, but no one would have her without a dowry. He promised me that if I did what he said, he would match my sister with a Duc!"

"Who said?" Athos asked urgently, stepping closer. "Who promised you?"

The Comte turned his back, staring out the window with dread on his face. "He will kill me for failing him," he whispered.

"Who?" Athos demanded.

"The Cardi-" the man's words cut off with a choked cry and he fell backwards. A small dagger protruded from his neck, jewels sparkling in the hilt.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos cried, gesturing. He leapt to his feet and raced from the room. Reaching the street, he tried to determine where the assassin had struck from, but he could see nothing at all. Frustrated, he returned to the study, ignoring the shocked faces of the servants he charged by.

Athos was standing at the desk. The Comte lay dead where he had fallen, scarlet blood staining his clothes. Several papers in what appeared to be the Comte's handwriting were scattered before Athos, and he seemed to be referencing them as he wrote something in a careful hand not his own.

"What are you doing?" D'Artagnan glanced down at the words. _I, Richard, Comte de Mironne, hereby confess…_ "Are you forging a confession?" he cried, shocked.

"You heard him. He is guilty. Someone wanted him dead before he could give us a written confession or name his employer. Without that, we cannot hope to free Aramis. I am improvising." He glanced up at D'Artagnan at last. "Do you have a problem with that?" He shook his head hurriedly. "Good. Then bring me his ring."

D'Artagnan wrenched the signet ring off the dead man's finger as Athos rolled the parchment tightly shut, dribbling a small amount of melted wax over the edge. He then pressed the Comte's ring into the soft wax, sealing the document.

"Did you put in the bit about the Cardinal?" D'Artagnan asked curiously.

Athos raised his eyebrows at him. "No. We need to make haste, and such an accusation would allow the Cardinal to delay long enough that Aramis might still be hanged before a pardon could be arranged. We cannot afford to antagonize Richelieu. We will inform Treville, but that is all we can do." Athos shot another eyebrow raise at him as he finished. This one said _I don't like it either but we have no choice so don't argue._ Athos had eloquent eyebrows.

"What do we do about him?" D'Artagnan asked, gesturing to the dead man.

"In a moment, we run out shouting that the Comte was murdered just after he gave us this confession and tell the servants to summon the guards. We then return to the garrison before they arrive so Treville can get this to the king." He strode over, tucking the scroll into his jacket. "Ready?"

D'Artagnan nodded. Pulling the door open, he began shouting at the top of his lungs, racing through the house with Athos at his heels.

* * *

Porthos was fighting the urge to hit something. He'd had to leave the garrison in a hurry before that 'something' became Treville's face. He knew it wasn't the captain's fault that Aramis had been assaulted, but the fact that he could do nothing about it enraged Porthos to the point where logic held no sway. He wanted to hurt someone, and he would not be around his brothers in that state. Treville could not help Aramis, but maybe there were others who could.

People scurried out of his way as he strode purposefully through the street. He could feel their eyes glued to his shoulder guard, wary and calculating, but he was not stopped until he made it all the way to the entrance of the building. There he was accosted not by armed guards, but by the Queen herself.

"What brings you here?" Flea asked with a broad smile. "Missing your old friends already?" Her grin faltered at the look on his face. Porthos was not in the mood for reminiscing.

"I need your help." He could see her taking him in, noting the hard set of his shoulders, the tight line of his mouth. Flea could read him better than anyone but Aramis, and he knew everything she was seeing told her of his desperation. She nodded and led him inside without another word.

When they reached her private chambers, she gestured for him to sit. "Does this have anything to do with the Musketeer who was arrested for messing about with a noble lady?"

Porthos thought of Aramis lying injured in a cell in the Châtelet and fought to keep the surge of fury from his voice. "Yes."

"Who was it?" Flea asked, her tone softening as she recognized his internal struggle. "One of your friends?"

Porthos found he couldn't say his name. He tried, but rage made the word catch in his throat, burning like acid. Flea was watching him, an expression of concern coming over her features as she connected the dots.

"Not Aramis?" She put a hand to her mouth in horror. Porthos had come to visit her a few weeks after his own arrest to see how things were settling in the Court. He had told her about Aramis when she propositioned him that same evening. He and Aramis were both allowed women, but he had felt sleeping with Flea again might be crossing that indistinct line he and Aramis had drawn as a boundary. Of course, Aramis had then broken it with the queen, but that was another matter.

Flea had been pleased for his happiness and immediately backed off. He knew she would understand how dire the current situation was and his struggles with his personal demons without him having to explain.

"He's scheduled to be executed. Dawn," he managed to force out.

Flea didn't hesitate at all. "Then we must rescue him." She rose and moved to the doorway, calling instructions to her guards. Returning, she rested a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. "I've summoned my people. We'll get him out, Porthos. I swear it."

He simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak as gratitude flooded his chest, dousing the flames of his anger to a more manageable degree. He fought through a brief explanation of the situation before Flea's lieutenants arrived, trusting her to fill them in on whatever was relevant. He couldn't bear speaking of it, not when every word called the image of Aramis into his mind, broken and bleeding alone in a freezing cell, at the mercy of the Red Guards.

When Flea's people had assembled, she laid the groundwork for a simple escape plan. Porthos knew the less complicated it was, the better chance it had of success. The people of the Court knew the ins and outs of all the city's prisons. There were ways, secret ways, to enter without the knowledge of the guards. Flea and her people would take Porthos, and hopefully Athos and D'Artagnan if he could find them, by way one of these hidden routes. They would whisk Aramis away and be gone before an alarm could be raised.

"It would be best to do it two hours before dawn," one of Flea's most trusted lieutenants told Porthos. His name was Alvert and he was almost as large as the Musketeer, and had been a soldier before he had lost his left hand. Now he captained the guard of the Court of Miracles. "The men on guard will be nearing the end of their shift, but the guard won't change for another hour. They'll be tired, not on the alert. No one will expect an rescue attempt until dawn. We can be in and out long before, and they likely won't discover he is missing until they go to fetch him at sunrise."

Porthos nodded. "I agree. Can I leave you to sort out the details?" he asked, glancing at Flea. "I need to collect my friends. They will want to join us and rescue Aramis."

Flea promised him she would arrange everything. As Porthos hurried into the street he tried to push the nightmarish images of Aramis out of his mind, focusing instead of the hope blossoming in his chest. He would see Aramis again.

* * *

**Will they rescue Aramis, or will the Cardinal trick them and emerge victorious? Reviews give me the energy to keep writing this story, so please let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: This chapter might make you all hate me, and it's quite dark, so I'm really sorry to be posting it when everyone is trying to handle their finale breakdowns (which I can't watch for another few hours, so please don't say anything about it in the comments!) I really ought to give you hugs and reconciliations, but instead I bring cliffhangers and angst. Sorry about that. Please find it in your hearts to forgive me and don't give up on this story. Things will improve from here.**

* * *

"You are sure the Musketeers did not get a confession?" The Cardinal's voice was low and dangerous. "It was beyond incompetent of the Comte to allow them to confront him at all."

She watched him like a snake watches a mouse it has decided it doesn't want to eat just yet. "The man died before he could implicate you."

Richelieu nodded self-importantly, and she fought to keep the sneer from her face. He was so arrogant and yet so petty, playing games to garner the king's favor. She needed him for now, but he was only a means to an end, the most convenient way to get to Athos and her revenge. And oh, would revenge be sweet. She longed to watch Athos fail another brother.

"There was something, though," she added, deriving a thrill of pleasure from his suddenly anxious expression. "They were looking at something in the fireplace before the Comte entered."

"Tell me he was not such a fool as the burn the note and not fully dispose of it!" the Cardinal cried, appalled. "If they found that letter they might be able to trace it back to my man, and that is too close for comfort, Milady!"

She regarded him impassively. "That is not my concern. You chose the Comte. Perhaps you should have searched for a more discreet pawn." Richelieu's eyes flashed furiously at her. "I am only concerned with the end result. If you fear discovery, kill the Musketeer quickly. Once he is dead, they will have no cause to continue their investigation, if indeed they found anything remotely useful in the first place."

The Cardinal was watching her with a calculating gaze. Carefully keeping her face blank, she yawned. "Are we done here?" she asked him sweetly.

"Yes," he said at last, turning away.

She wanted nothing more than to leave his presence, but she had one final point to make. "You told me that the Musketeer would not be saved. See to it you keep your word." She felt his furious gaze drive daggers into her back as she swept away.

* * *

"We need to get this to the king," Treville said, calling orders for horses to be readied at once. "Where is Porthos?" He glanced back at them, questions in his eyes. Athos simply shrugged. He did not know where their friend was and there was not time to find him now.

Treville frowned. "He came by earlier looking for you. He was more angry than I have seen in years. Apparently he had been to visit Aramis and found him unconscious. The Red Guards attacked him." Treville's voice was bitter. "When I told him there was nothing I could do, he said he would do something himself."

Athos could see the regret in Treville's face, the pain of knowing his man had been injured and there was nothing he could do about it. He met his captain's gaze steadily, conveying his understanding of the difficult situation while forcibly suppressing his own rage at the news.

"Well, we cannot wait for Porthos. Aramis may not have that kind of time." With that, Treville turned and led them from the courtyard, galloping towards the castle.

It was late for a royal audience. Dinner was being laid out and the royal couple was preparing to begin the banquet when Treville convinced the steward to fetch them. The king arrived into the audience chamber looking irate. The queen followed more sedately, catching Athos's eyes with a hopeful expression.

"What is the meaning of this, Treville?" the king demanded impetuously as the Cardinal entered. "There are a dozen noble families waiting for our royal presence. This better be important."

"It is, sire, I assure you," said Treville calmly, holding out the parchment. "This comes straight from the Comte de Mironne. In it, he confesses to the framing of one of my men for committing adultery with his wife, the Comtesse. Aramis is innocent."

King Louis stared at him, dumbstruck. Beside him, the queen ducked her head to conceal a small, relieved smile. The Cardinal was glaring at Treville. "Surely there has been some mistake. No noble lady would lie about such a thing."

"It was the Comte that lied, your Majesty," Treville said, ignoring Richelieu and addressing the king. "Apparently he had squandered his fortunes. Someone paid him to give the Musketeers a bad name."

"And who was this mysterious enemy, Captain?" the king asked, reading the confession at last. "He does not say."

Treville glanced at Athos, who had already prepared for this question. "He refused to name his sponsor before any but your Majesty," he informed them, bowing his head respectfully. "Sadly, he was murdered before we could escort him to the palace. An assassin, likely hired by his patron to keep him silent. We are lucky they struck after the confession was written." He met the Cardinal's gaze unflinchingly as he spoke the final lines and was gratified to see the alarmed look on the older man's face.

"God has smiled upon the innocent," interjected the queen softly. "He has struck down the wicked to spare a good man. We must pardon him at once."

"I agree." The king looked shaken. "And we must speak to the Comtesse de Mironne and see what she knows about all of this. How dare they defame my Musketeers! I will write a pardon immediately. Call for a scribe! I believe the execution is not until dawn, Cardinal?" the king asked.

The Cardinal glanced at him before fixing his gaze on Treville. "Unfortunately, sire, in my haste to put this ugly matter behind us, I moved up the execution. It is to occur at 9 o'clock this evening."

"That's in less than half an hour!" D'Artagnan cried, manners forgotten in his shock. Athos felt cold. Could they get to the Châtelet in time?

He could hear the king shouting at the Cardinal for arranging an execution without his say and apologizing to Treville. The Captain's voice rose over the clamor, calling to Athos. "GO! I will follow once I have the pardon! Do whatever you must to stop them!" Athos heard the king second the command. Turning, he and D'Artagnan headed for the stables at a dead run, praying they would arrive in time.

* * *

Aramis was aware of hands yanking him to his feet and dragging him from his freezing cell. His injuries protested at the motion and his head spun sickeningly, but the guards supporting him did not slow their pace. He wondered what was going on. It could not be dawn already?

"The Comte will be pleased to learn you've been taken care of," the sergeant sneered, intentionally jostling him in such a way that his ribs ached sharply. "He'll be glad his pretty wife is safe from you."

_Comte_, Aramis thought, _what Comte?_ Was it not the king who had cause to rejoice in his demise?

They passed by a barred window, and though his vision was blurred he caught sight of the moon hanging in the dark sky. _Still evening then,_ he thought vaguely as the chains around his ankles snagged on the rough floor, cutting into his legs. _Where are we going?_

His question was answered as they emerged into a courtyard lit by torches. A man stood on a raised platform in the middle, securing a noose to the crossbeam. Apparently, his execution had been moved.

He supposed he ought to feel despair, but part of him was grateful. His friends surely did not know about the change in arrangements, and thus could not endanger their lives in a foolish rescue attempt. By the time they might be ready to do anything, he would already be dead. He hoped they wouldn't grieve too long.

_Will Porthos grieve at all? _he wondered with a pang.

As they hauled him bodily up the steps to the gallows, he felt a surge of renewed strength. He shook off the guards and mounted the steps alone, head held proudly despite the pain. He was a Musketeer. If he was to die, it would be with his dignity intact.

At the top of the steps, the hooded man grabbed him and dragged him to stand atop a trapdoor. Aramis could see the hinges. He straightened his back. "Do you want a hood?" He shook his head. A moment later he felt a rope tighten unpleasantly about his neck. The noose was rough and scratchy and made it hard to swallow.

"Any last words?" Aramis did not look at the hangman. Slowly he shook his head. His last words were not for this man. In his mind he pictured Porthos's laughing face, dark eyes dancing with delight at some joke he'd made. He wanted to tell him he was sorry.

_I love you_, he whispered in his heart to a man he knew could not hear him, a man who might no longer care. _I am sorry_. _We will meet again_.

The hangman grunted and moved to the lever. For a moment, Aramis thought he heard the ringing of steel echoing from within the prison. The next moment, the Captain nodded, and the lever was pulled.

The trapdoor beneath his feet opened. He tried to hold Porthos's face in is mind as he fell, rope jerking taught. _I love you._

"Aramis!"

* * *

D'Artagnan charged through the gates after Athos, sword drawn in preparation. Several guards had tried to stop them and were lying in various states of injury strewn across the entry courtyard behind them. Athos gestured down a side hallway and D'Artagnan followed, lungs burning, offering prayer after prayer to God that they would not arrive too late.

He burst out into a brightly lit courtyard, following closely on Athos's heels, just in time to see a hooded man pull a lever. He mind seemed to be processing things too slowly, unable to connect the lever to the noose around Aramis's neck until he heard the trapdoor swing open.

"Aramis!" The word was a howl of pure desperation as Athos threw himself onto the nearest guard. D'Artagnan was staring at Aramis in stunned shock when he noticed that Aramis was struggling in his bonds. Good God. The fall hadn't broken his neck. They weren't too late. Not yet.

The thought coursed through his body like lightning and he launched himself into the fray. There were only a handful of guards in the courtyard to witness the execution, and he left the last two to Athos, shoving past them to the gallows. He severed the rope neatly and grabbed Aramis before he could fall, knocking them both into the dirt and rolling to avoid a blow from one of the guards that was still standing.

Athos attacked the man viciously as D'Artagnan worked frantically on the knotted rope around Aramis's neck. He couldn't tell if the other man was breathing, if they were too late. He dug his fingers into the knot, but it was too tight. Cursing, he pulled out his dagger, nicking Aramis's neck in his haste to cut the noose free. At last he got it off and tossed it to the side where it lay like a coiled serpent.

Athos had fallen to his knees beside Aramis, one hand fumbling frantically at his neck, bruised and bleeding from the rough rope. D'Artagnan watched him, hardly daring to breathe, praying for a miracle. Then Athos's eyes met his own and he went numb.

* * *

Porthos hurried through the dark alley, anxious to return to the Court. Night had fallen and he had failed to find Athos or D'Artagnan at their lodgings. The garrison had been deserted when he wandered by, so he decided he would be best served returning to the Court and praying his rescue attempt didn't clash with anything Athos might be planning.

He was on the edge of the Court now, passing by some of the seedier drinking houses, when a group of Red Guards spotted him. He recognized one from the Châtelet earlier, his face red. They were all very drunk, and he could see them pointing at his shoulder guard. In moments, they'd blocked the path from the alley.

"Well, well, what do we have 'ere, boys?" asked the big, red-faced guard. "A Musketeer all alone. Off to ravage a helpless woman like your friend?" His companions guffawed. Porthos felt anger burst through him and relished the feeling. It drowned out his anxiety and concern and left his head clear.

The guard frowned, looking annoyed at his lack of response. "I'm talking t' you," he said, jabbing a finger in Porthos's direction and stepping closer. "You ain't got no respect. Musketeers! Bah!" he spit in the dirt. "Glad there's one fewer now."

For a moment, Porthos couldn't understand what the man meant. _One fewer? How is there one fewer?_

The man noticed his confusion and smiled cruelly. "Lookit that boys. He don't know!" They all laughed, closing ranks, surrounding him. "That friend of yours? The no good whoremonger? Cardinal moved up his execution." He grinned in triumph. "Had 'im hanged at the strike of nine. I heard when I left my shift they was fetching 'im to the gallows. Shoulda stayed to watch him swing."

Porthos felt like he'd fallen into an icy river. His vision narrowed and his heart seemed to be having difficulty pumping blood through his veins. He'd heard wrong. Aramis wasn't dead.

Aramis couldn't be dead.

The men were jeering at him now, shoving him backwards, but he couldn't make his limbs respond. All he could see was Aramis, a noose around his neck, dangling from the gallows like a child's broken doll. His back hit the wall and he doubled over, retching. Around him, the men exploded into laughter.

"Wish I'd been the one to pull the lever and send 'im straight to Hell!" the red-faced man exclaimed, and something inside Porthos snapped, flooding his limbs with white hot rage. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Four of his compatriots followed in a matter of moments before Porthos was borne to the ground by the sheer mass of men. He could hear men shouting, feel the hoof beats as more Red Guards arrived, dragging him out of the press of bodies and binding his hands. He knocked one off his horse and took a blade to the arm for his trouble. He didn't care what happened, didn't care if they killed him, because Aramis was dead and he hadn't even said goodbye.

He fought like a wild thing, throwing himself against the guards even as they tossed him into a cell deep in the Châtelet. Only when they left him did his fury evaporate, leaving nothing but a dark, empty hole within him. They hadn't unbound his hands, and as he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet he noticed the blood dripping onto the stone from his injured arm, and beyond that another puddle of blood, older, and it hit him. He was in Aramis's cell.

A noise broke from him that was part sob, part groan, and he sank back to the floor, his strength deserting him. His ears were full of the sound of a trapdoor opening, and all he saw when he closed his eyes were Aramis's staring sightlessly back at him.

_My fault. It's my fault. I should have saved him. I let him die. I said he __**deserved**__ it. _The thought made him choke back a scream. _I might as well have pulled the lever myself. Now he is gone. Gone, gone, gone._ Porthos lacked the will to move, and so he lay on the floor and wept as the night passed.

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**I'm a monster. Sorry. I may try to post another chapter later after I get to watch the finale. Hopefully the next chapter will have a bit less angst. Please review, even if it's just to convey how deeply you now hate me.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I wanted to get another chapter up quickly because I felt like that last chapter was too cruel when we are all dealing with the end of the season. There needed to be a ray of hope, especially because I may not get a chapter done tomorrow.  
**

* * *

Porthos didn't know if he slept or if he just sank into darkness. He did know that Red Guards had stormed into his cell more than once in the night, trying to goad him into a fight and kicking him viciously when they failed. He didn't care. What did it matter?

Sometime later, a group of men came into his cell and dragged him out. He felt lightheaded as they hauled him through hallways dimly lit by the rising sun. He realized vaguely that he had lost a lot of blood from the wound on his arm, but he couldn't muster the energy to be concerned.

Soon enough he found himself standing before the great front gate of the prison. The captain was saying something about Musketeers being too hot to hold onto right now, and Porthos found his hands were suddenly free as he was flung into the street.

He lay there for an unknown period of time, wondering if it was worth getting up. He supposed he ought to return to the garrison to be with Athos and D'Artagnan, but he didn't know if he could face them, not after what he had said to Athos. _He deserves it._ That anger seemed such a distant thing.

Someone was calling his name, and with a great force of will he pushed himself off the ground and looked up to see Flea hurrying towards him, her guards lurking in the shadows. He allowed her to help him up but didn't answer her questions. He heard the moment her tone changed to sympathy, pity, and he knew she had been told.

Suddenly he found her presence unbearable. Her compassion was forcing its way into the hole in his chest, forcing him to feel again, and he didn't want to. He managed to mumble something about going to the garrison and pushed past her, ignoring her alarmed calls.

He wasn't quite sure how he made it through the streets back to the garrison. He didn't want to be there, but then he didn't want to be anywhere, really, so the garrison was as good a place as the next. This early in the morning there wasn't anyone in sight. Porthos found a convenient post and leaned against it, head spinning sickeningly.

He found himself unable to look around the yard. Everywhere, everywhere he looked he could see Aramis. He'd nearly thrown up when he'd caught sight of a target leaning against the wall, a hole punched dead through the center. Treville had kept it to encourage new recruits. Generally it had just stroked Aramis's ego.

He was fast losing his battle with control, unable to keep the memories bottled up where he could deal with them. He was considering just collapsing against the wall and staying there until someone found him when a furious voice cut through the pounding in his head.

"Porthos!"

His eyes flew open to see Athos striding towards him, murder on his face. _Ahhh, he blames me then,_ Porthos thought hazily. _As well he should. I should've been there._

"Where have you been?" Athos shouted. "We've been looking everywhere for…" His voice trailed off as he realized the state the other man was in. Porthos supposed he must look a sight. "What happened?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. That was good. Porthos didn't know what to say.

"Come with me, now," Athos ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. He grabbed Porthos's uninjured arm and hauled him bodily forward.

"Why?" Porthos asked, his voice sounding weak and lost even to his own ears. He allowed himself to be dragged along. There was no point in resisting.

"Why? Because the idiot isn't meant to be speaking at all, but that sure as Hell hasn't stopped him from asking for you, so you are damned well going to go up there and get him to shut up and stop making things worse!"

Porthos stared at him in confusion. "Who's asking for me?" he asked, stopping in the center of the courtyard. "D'Artagnan?"

"Of course not!" Athos snapped. Then he froze, turning to look at Porthos with an odd expression, as if he were solving a complicated puzzle. "No, not D'Artagnan," he said slowly.

Porthos felt like he was missing something crucial, but he didn't know what.

"Who then?" he asked stupidly.

"Aramis."

Athos said the name like it was the simplest thing in the world, not knowing that it sent pain shooting through Porthos's heart like an icy dagger. "Don't fuck with me," he growled desperately. "You aren't that cruel."

"Cruel…? Porthos, Aramis is alive!" He saw the truth in Athos's eyes and written on his face. He felt his knees weaken beneath him and remained standing only by sheer force of will. He breathed one word in response.

"Where?"

* * *

D'Artagnan leapt to his feet when he heard the footsteps on the stairs. He cast a worried glance over at Aramis, who had fallen into a fitful sleep. The doctor had left just after Athos, and D'Artagnan couldn't help wishing he had stayed. Aramis's strained breathing filled the small room and twisted his stomach into knots. He prayed Athos found Porthos before their friend woke again.

It seemed God was listening to their prayers today, for a moment later the door swung silently open to reveal an ashen Porthos. He stood frozen in the doorway a long minute, staring at Aramis's unconscious form, while Athos attempted to forcibly propel him into the room from behind with little success.

At long last Porthos took a small step forward. As if that simple motion had raised the floodgates he suddenly made a choked sound and crossed the room in a few long strides, sinking to his knees beside the bed.

"Aramis…" the word dropped from his lips like a prayer as he bowed his head, eyes shut tightly, lips moving soundlessly. D'Artagnan wondered if he was thanking God. He certainly had.

D'Artagnan glanced up at Athos, who gestured him into the hallway. "What happened to him?" he whispered.

Athos shrugged, eyebrows pinched in concern. "I'm not sure. But when I found him, he thought Aramis was dead. I imagine he may have had a run in with some mistakenly triumphant Red Guards."

D'Artagnan winced. "He looks like hell. Shouldn't we try to clean him up? It's good he's here and all, but it'll do more harm than good if Aramis wakes up and sees him like that. He's still bleeding."

"I agree. If Aramis finds him with open wounds, the idiot may even try to sew him up himself, and the exertion could very well kill him." D'Artagnan nodded at the grim but accurate assessment. Athos's eyes suddenly glanced behind him.

D'Artagnan felt the footsteps before Porthos emerged into the hall. He noticed the larger Musketeer did not shut the door behind him and positioned himself so he had a clear view of their injured friend.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice shaky.

"I will explain while D'Artagnan sews up your arm," Athos said sternly, gently but firmly pushing Porthos back into the room. D'Artagnan followed.

"Why me?" he asked in an undertone, unwilling to wake Aramis.

Athos raised his eyebrows at him. "Because my stitching is terrible, and besides, one of us needs to keep him still and you are too small." D'Artagnan opened his mouth to protest, but Athos glanced pointedly at Aramis and he shut his mouth, fetching the sewing kit the doctor had left. As he threaded the needle, he heard Athos explaining what they had learned yesterday to Porthos, who remained silent even when the needle pierced his arm.

D'Artagnan worked as quickly as possible, anxious to finish before Aramis awoke. The end result wasn't pretty, and Aramis would be horrified when he saw it, but it would hold. Athos then pushed a loaf of bread and a cup of water at Porthos and instructed him to eat, glaring balefully at him until he did so and checking him for further injuries as he ate.

Once Athos was at last satisfied that Porthos was no longer in danger of collapsing, he moved aside and allowed Porthos back to the bed. The big Musketeer was looking Aramis over with concern, and D'Artagnan knew what he was seeing.

Black bruises stretched across Aramis's chest. There was blood in his hair and his face was swollen and littered with small cuts. His wounds had been cleaned and his broken fingers set, but that was not what captured Porthos's gaze. He was staring at Aramis's neck.

A stark white bandage that wrapped around his throat, emphasizing the wheezy breathes that were all Aramis was capable of drawing. Blood stained the bandage along one edge, bright against the white. Porthos seemed entranced by it. At that moment, Aramis's breathing stuttered in his chest and three pairs of eyes fixed suddenly on his face until he drew breath again.

"What is that?" Porthos asked quietly. One hand reached out and tentatively brushed the bandages.

"We were almost too late," D'Artagnan told him, wincing at the memory. It would haunt his dreams for months, he was sure. "The Cardinal had pushed the execution forward. They pulled the lever as we ran in. We got him down, but the rope had cut into his neck. The doctor said he's lucky his windpipe wasn't crushed. As it is, his throat has swollen nearly closed. He can't breathe properly. If the swelling increases any further, he will suffocate." The words sent a shiver of fear down his spine.

"Which is why it is absolutely essential he be kept calm," Athos added gravely. "He is not to speak or move about until the swelling begins to go down. That is why I was looking for you," he said, inclining his head at Porthos. "He woke before dawn delirious, demanding we bring you to him. Nothing we could say would calm him. The doctor worried he would die right then, but he passed out first. I left to bring you back so it wouldn't happen a second time."

Porthos nodded, but his gaze had not left Aramis's face since his breathing had faltered. "You should get some rest," Athos told him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "We will wake you if anything changes."

Unsurprisingly, Porthos shook his head. "You can rest. I'll watch him." D'Artagnan caught Athos's eye and shrugged. This wasn't a fight he wanted to have. Athos nodded, conceding.

"Very well. But wake us if you feel tired or anything changes. We will be next door." Porthos grunted an acknowledgment as D'Artagnan followed Athos into the next room, anxiety giving way to exhaustion as he collapsed onto a bed.

* * *

Porthos watched Aramis's chest rise and fall, unconsciously mimicking the motion himself. Each time the other man's breathing faltered, Porthos held his breath until it resumed once more. He felt tethered to Aramis, as if by breathing deeply he could keep his lover breathing too. Perhaps it was madness or exhaustion, but he didn't care anymore. Too much had happened in the last few days. He would sort through his chaotic emotions once Aramis was on the mend.

He allowed his head to drop for a moment, resting it against Aramis's hand. God would not be so cruel as to take him away now. He had to believe that, or he would lose his mind. There had to be a reason than Aramis's neck had not broken in the fall.

A momentary hush fell over the room as Aramis struggled with a breath that didn't want to come, coughing weakly as he exhaled. A second later his eyes flickered open and landed squarely on Porthos's face.

Porthos nearly leapt from his chair. Aramis's eyes were fixed on his, wide and panicked. "P'rth's," he croaked, gasping as he tried to breathe and coughing when he failed.

"I'm here, I'm here, it's fine, calm down," Porthos murmured, desperate to sooth Aramis before he did himself some damage, but he didn't seem to be helping. Aramis's chest was rising and falling rapidly but he wasn't getting any air.

"Please, calm down," Porthos muttered frantically, rubbing a hand in soothing circular motions across Aramis's chest, mindless of the bruises. Aramis gasped and choked and Porthos felt in that moment that he was going to die.

He could not allow that to happen.

Gingerly, he eased Aramis into a more or less upright position and squeezed in behind him, leaning against the headboard and pulling Aramis against him. Aramis's head lolled limp against his shoulder as he tried to look at Porthos, who wrapped a gentle arm around him, murmuring softly in his ear.

"Deep breaths, love, you're going to be alright. Breathe with me." He took a deep breath, letting Aramis feel it against his back, and after a moment felt Aramis try to follow suit. He was rewarded with a breathy wheeze as Aramis managed to get air into his starved lungs. "That's it, you're doing great. Just breathe."

Aramis's hands were balled in tight fists, clenching the legs of Porthos's trousers as he struggled to inhale. Porthos kept up a stream of encouragement, crooning softly in his ear. After a few minutes, Aramis's breathing evened out at last and his head fell back against Porthos's shoulder. He was asleep again in moments.

Porthos simply sat there, clutching Aramis to him, breathing in unison with him. He felt as if a barrier had been crossed, and he could not suppress the surge of hope that swelled in his chest and made his eyes sting. He buried his face in Aramis's hair and focused on breathing.

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**Porthos is concerned now, but soon enough he will remember why he was angry. Aramis will have some apologizing to do once he can speak again. Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Slightly shorter chapter today because I am emotionally shattered by the **_**How I Met Your Mother **_**series finale. Seriously, two finales in two days was not fair. C'mon universe. If there are any mistakes in this, I apologize, but I'm too tired to edit it as closely as usual. Anyway, this chapter is mostly just setting up the next one, but hopefully the end will bring a smile to your face. Soon we'll see Porthos confront Aramis on his actions and the Cardinal's guards get their comeuppance. **

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"YOU TOLD ME HE DID NOT CONFESS!"

She had barely made in through the doorway before the Cardinal's hand was fastened around her throat like a vice. He slammed her against the wall viciously, cracking her head against the hard stone. She fought the urge to slip a knife between his ribs. It would be oh so easy with him blinded by rage. It took all of her self-restraint not to kill him this very moment, but she still needed him. She wondered if he planned on filling her in on what exactly had occurred. From the anger radiating off her employer, something had gone badly wrong.

"The Musketeers delivered a sealed confession to the king! He pardoned his man instantly!" The Cardinal was seething, eyes bright like coals in the flickering light. He looked half-crazed, nothing like his usual poised self.

She struggled to speak around the hand at her throat. "He's alive?"

The Cardinal released her, spinning on his heel and pacing the length of the room. "What does it matter if he is alive? The king's sympathies lie more strongly with Treville now than ever before! My entire plan is ruined, my very person was at risk, and all you can think about is your petty revenge!"

"Is he or isn't he?" she demanded. She didn't want to push him when he was like this, but she had to know.

The Cardinal whirled to glare at her balefully, stalking back towards her. "Yes, he's alive, it would seem, and already there are questions about his treatment at the hands of my guards. According to your beloved Athos, he was assaulted in his cell! The king has proposed an inquisition into the matter!" She noticed his hand clenching convulsively, clearly itching to wrap around her neck once more. She eyed him cautiously but held her ground. If he touched her again, she would kill him, patronage be damned.

But he didn't. He simply stopped in the middle of the room, glaring at the wall above her head as if it had done him some personal injury. "You assured me the Comte did not confess. You swore he was dead!"

"He was!" she shot at him, monitoring his reaction. "I was watching through the window. He wrote nothing at all before I killed him. He did not even finish speaking."

"Then where did the confession come from!" Richelieu bellowed.

She curled her lip, eyeing him distastefully. "I would imagine it was a forgery," she told him, keeping her voice even. "Athos has a fine hand and very few morals where his friends are concerned."

"You should have killed the Comte before he ever had the chance to speak with them! If it was a forgery, it was based off of his testimony. He might have implicated me! You stupid, incompetent woman!" He took a step toward her and she tensed, making sure he saw the motion. He paused, clearly unwilling to risk the argument turning physical. He was no fool: he knew she could kill him in a fight. It would do him no good if his guards dispatched her afterwards. He would already be dead.

"You will silence the Comtesse immediately," he breathed, fury written across his face. "I do not know how much she was told, but we cannot risk her revealing my hand in this."

She nodded at him and turned to go. The Cardinal stepped forward and grabbed her arm. "And know this, _Milady_," he hissed. "If I go down for this debacle, I will take you with me. And if you fail me again," his hand tightened painfully, "I will have you killed in the most violent way I can imagine, and my imagination is excellent. I have read Dante's _Inferno_. I will show you suffering you could never dream of."

She refused to show fear. Rather than dignify the threat with a response she simply glared at him until he released her. She passed down the hallway silently, heading directly for the wing of the palace that housed the Comtesse de Mironne. She had poisons with her, as always. It would be a simple enough matter to tie up the loose ends.

As she walked, she fought to keep her expression blank in case anyone were to see her. Inwardly, she fumed. The first step of her revenge had ended in utter failure. Aramis was alive and Athos was not lying half-dead in a tavern, drowning in grief and guilt. She ought never to have trusted the Cardinal to help secure her revenge. It was time she took matters into her own hands.

It was the work of a few moments to arrange for a tray of sweet buns to be sent to the grieving Comtesse as an early breakfast, and the blink of an eye was all the time she needed to add a deadly powder to the Comtesse's goblet. For good measure, she dusted more over the buns themselves. She'd seen the trouble caused by sloppiness.

Her work done, she crept away, mind buzzing with plans. She needed to go see Sarazin and set in motion the final stage of her plot. She had planned to kill Athos's two older friends first, but it seemed too difficult now. She would not take revenge in gradual steps, not again. No, this time, her revenge would be swift and absolute.

* * *

If Athos was surprised at the sight that greeted them when they entered the room, he didn't show it. One eyebrow may have risen in faint astonishment, but what did that matter? The unorthodox position that Porthos was currently occupying was of little concern compared to the fact that it was evidently allowing Aramis to breathe more easily than he had since they had first rescued him.

Porthos glared daggers at D'Artagnan beside him, clearly daring the boy to breathe a word about his new occupation as a human pillow. A quick glance showed he was fighting to contain a smile, but Athos sensed it was relief, not amusement, that was lighting the younger man's features.

Porthos was sitting slouched on the bed with his back against the headboard, looking tremendously uncomfortable but unable to move due to the fact that Aramis had managed to sprawl across most of his body, twisted half onto his side with his face pressed against Porthos's chest and one hand tangled in his shirt. His breathing was still strained and ragged, but it was missing the desperate edge it had the night before, and even from the doorway Athos could see that the bandages around Aramis's neck were looser. The swelling was going down.

Athos stepped softly over to the bed, examining Aramis's neck, which was returning to a healthy skin tone at last. "You should probably get up," he whispered to Porthos as D'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder. "The doctor will arrive shortly."

"I'd love to," Porthos whispered in return. "But I can't make him let go." To demonstrate his point, he tugged gently on Aramis's arm. The sleeping man made a sound of protest and curled further against him, fist clenching in his shirt. "See? You've got to help me!"

"I suppose the doctor might think it rather unusual," Athos conceded, "but you are hardly in mortal peril." D'Artagnan sniggered but Porthos shook his head, looking frantic.

"It's not that," he hissed, turning imploring eyes up at them. "I really need to piss!"

D'Artagnan had to leave the room before his muffled laughter woke Aramis. Athos himself fought back a smile, his own heart unusually light with relief at the sound of Aramis's steadier breathing. He tried to gently pry Aramis off of Porthos's chest, but the man was like a leech. He didn't want to hurt him, but he had to get him off somehow or everyone would become very uncomfortable. Eventually he levered Aramis up enough for Porthos to slip out from beneath him and disappear out the door. He heard D'Artagnan break into fresh laughter as Porthos pounded by.

Athos lay Aramis gently back onto the bed, mindful of his injuries. He smiled fondly as Aramis tried vainly to curl into warmth that was no longer there, reaching out to brush dark curls from his friend's forehead.

Porthos and D'Artagnan reentered a few minutes later, followed by the doctor who had tended to Aramis the previous night. Athos and D'Artagnan stood back as the man checked Aramis's injuries with a critical eye. Porthos, who had apparently forgotten the meaning of the phrase 'personal space,' hovered anxiously over the man, watching the proceedings. There was a look of intense guilt on his face that gave Athos pause. He would be having a serious conversation with Porthos when this was over about blaming oneself for things entirely out of one's control.

At last the doctor unwound the bandages from Aramis's neck. Athos winced at Porthos's stricken expression as he bent over, cursing softly. A vivid red line encircled Aramis's throat, scabbed in places where the rope had chafed away at his flesh. The entire area was puffy and swollen, with bruises spreading across the skin as if they had been painted on. From the corner of his eye, he could see that D'Artagnan looked vaguely ill and was staring fixedly at a long shallow cut scored lengthwise across the line.

After a moment, the doctor smiled. "He is healing well," he announced. He must have noted the incredulous look in Porthos's eyes, because he nodded and continued, "The swelling is going down already, and the cuts are not particularly deep. The scarring will be minor."

Athos fought an urge to vomit at the words. Aramis would bear a scar just like the one his wife surely bore. It would mark him forever, and he was vain enough that he would hate it. He would try to hide it. Athos thought of the ribbon around Anne's neck. His ears were ringing and he struggled to hear the doctor's next words.

"It will be some time before he is fully mended. He must have absolute bed rest. Do not allow him to become agitated or upset until his breathing has settled. He should also not be allowed to speak for a week. I do not believe his speech will be affected, but it is better to be safe than sorry. No solid food until the swelling is completely gone. He may have broth, and honey will sooth his throat if it aches within. I will leave you herbs to brew tea for the pain."

He laid out a few packets on the table before glancing up at Porthos. "And you, young man, these are for you," he said as he placed another bundle beside the first. "I can see you are injured. These will help."

He bustled out before Porthos could protest or Athos could offer him any money, calling back that he would return the following afternoon. They all stared after him in a stunned sort of silence. The old man was a force of nature.

It was D'Artagnan who spoke first. "He's going to be all right." His voice was soft, disbelieving. Then again. "He's going to be all right." His face broke into a broad smile as he repeated it for a third time, and Athos found himself echoing it with no reservations. Porthos grinned like a madman, and in moments they were all laughing with abandon. Any attempts to stifle their joy and not wake Aramis served only to make them louder, and soon they were collapsing through the doorway into the hall, clutching one another to keep upright, laughing until tears rolled down their faces.

_We may all be insane,_ Athos thought dryly, but he couldn't find it in himself to be bothered. They had won. Aramis was going to live, and they deserved to have a laugh. God only knew when they would get another.

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**Please review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: I really struggled with this chapter. I meant to post two today in celebration of my birthday, but too much cake has made that impossible. Sorry. I'll try to have another up earlier tomorrow. Until then, enjoy Athos being wise, rational, and emotionally stable and refusing to let Porthos wallow in guilt.**

* * *

When Aramis awoke, he felt as if a hand were clamped over his throat, choking the life from him. Panic set in and he tried to cough, struggling weakly to dislodge his attacker. Dimly he remembered waking like this before and a voice begging him to breathe slowly. He could hear someone now, their voice harried, but he couldn't quite make out the words. His head was spinning and he felt darkness creeping over him. Grasping his struggles seemed only to make everything worse, he endeavored to breathe evenly. It was difficult and immensely painful, but it enabled him to take in air at last.

He realized then that no one was attacking him and opened his eyes, blinking dimly in the bright light. A shadowy figure was bent over him. As his eyes adjusted, he recognized D'Artagnan's anxious face peering down at him. He frowned. For some reason, he had expected Porthos, but why?

"Aramis?" D'Artagnan asked nervously, watching him with an expression Aramis knew all too well. It was the same one that graced his features when one of his brothers had done something bone-headed and gotten themselves seriously injured. He winced as he tried to take a deeper breath, sifting through his memory for whatever it was he had done.

_Something tugging at his neck, the scraping release of a trapdoor, swords dancing in the light as his vision went dim, can't breathe…_ Aramis's hand flew to his neck as he remembered, encountering layers of bandages_… can't breathe, choking, Porthos's heartbeat at his back…_

"Porthos!" he gasped out, sending a wave of pain crashing through throat. He coughed agonizingly, the taste of blood in his mouth. He could make out D'Artagnan darting about anxiously and after a moment something was pressed against his lips. He swallowed instinctively and cool water ran down his throat, flavored with something sweet that soothed the fiery pain. Honey.

"Is that better?" the boy asked hesitantly. "Don't speak! Just, I don't know, nod or something." Aramis nodded cautiously, finding the motion sent a rather severe twinge of pain through his neck. He ignored it. Every breath was still agony, but the pain was manageable as long as he could breathe.

"You're at the garrison. Would you like me to tell you what happened?" D'Artagnan asked. Aramis shot him a pointed look and he ducked his head sheepishly. "I mean, ahh, I will tell you what happened."

Aramis made a small sound of negation and shook his head. That could wait. He had a more pressing concern. Unfortunately, he could not speak, nor put his words directly into D'Artagnan's mind, and thus the boy was staring at him in confusion. "You don't want me to tell you?"

Aramis fought the urge to growl and made a gesture with his hand, doing his best to mimic writing. Apparently his attempt at charades failed dismally. There was no comprehension on the boy's face. Aramis rolled his eyes and flopped back against the pillows dramatically, wincing.

D'Artagnan raised his hands helplessly. "I don't understand what you want." Aramis sent a pointed glance at the door, then the empty seat beside the bed, and comprehension dawned on the boy's face. "Oh! Porthos and Athos went to meet with Captain Treville. He wanted to know how you were doing."

Aramis exhaled slowly and carefully. So Porthos had been there. It had not been a dream. A feeling of intense relief swept through his body and settled in his chest, warming him. He found he could breathe a little easier.

"I'll tell you what the doctor said now," D'Artagnan said, managing to make even that statement sound like a question. Aramis nodded, only half listening as D'Artagnan explained about his injuries and how he was healing. It was only when he was told he wasn't to speak that he grew attentive once more. The boy must have noticed his slight alarm for he quickly clarified.

"You'll be able to soon," he explained earnestly. "The doctor just said you weren't to strain your throat for a week or so."

Aramis stared at him in blank dismay. Not speak for a week? Then how on earth could he apologize to Porthos for his deceptions? He had to apologize as soon as possible. The fact that Porthos had been there not long before was a hopeful sign, but he knew his lover well enough to know he was far from forgiven. Porthos would be nothing but attentive until he was healed, or at least mostly healed, and then like as not he'd get his nose broken and be shouted at for days.

Not that he didn't deserve it, of course. He was still pathetically grateful that Porthos had come at all. He would take anger over hatred in a heartbeat. He had been so sure Porthos was gone for good…

D'Artagnan seemed anxious to fill the silence, so Aramis let him blather on, nodding every so often to encourage him. He liked the noise, even if he wasn't precisely listening. His thoughts were fixed on one face. He needed Porthos to return, needed to know for sure that he was not hated, and that in time he might be forgiven.

* * *

Athos grabbed Porthos's shoulder as soon as they left Treville's office, steering him away from the stairs that led to the room where Aramis was housed. Porthos struggled for a moment, and Athos knew he wanted to check on Aramis, but he simply clamped his hand more firmly on the bigger man's muscular shoulder and half-steered, half-pushed him from the garrison and out into the street, where he headed straight towards the nearest tavern.

He shoved Porthos towards a table near the back of the room and caught a barmaid's eye as he followed. She bustled over as he sat down and placed two bottles of wine on the table. They knew him here.

"What're we doing here, Athos?" Porthos asked, an edge to his voice. He cracked his knuckles idly, a nervous habit he'd picked up years before. "I'm not in the mood for drinking."

"I didn't bring you here to drink," Athos told him calmly. Porthos raised an eyebrow and glanced at the glasses Athos was filling with wine. "Not solely to drink," he amended, and was gratified to see that Porthos chuckled faintly.

"Why are we here then?" Porthos asked, accepting a glass and downing it in one go. Athos poured him another before he spoke.

"You blame yourself for what happened to Aramis." He spoke bluntly. He'd never seen the point of subtlety. Porthos choked on his gulp of wine and surfaced from his glass, spluttering. "I can see it written all over you. You've never been any good at hiding your feelings. I may not be as observant as Aramis, but I'm not blind, my friend."

Porthos was glaring at the bottle of wine as if it were his nemesis. "Full of false promises, you were," he muttered mutinously. The wine did not answer. Porthos kept his gaze fixed on it. Athos sighed.

"We are going to discuss this, Porthos," he said evenly. "We can do it the easy way, or I can get you staggering drunk and we can do it the easier way. Sadly, the latter increases the risk that you won't remember a word of this conversation, so I would prefer to discuss this like rational human beings."

Porthos gave a theatrical sigh and sat back in his chair, removing his hat. "What do you want to discuss?"

"Do you deny that you blame yourself?" Athos asked frankly.

Porthos's gaze met his own. "No."

Athos nodded, considering. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you blame yourself? Explain to me how this could possibly be your fault."

Porthos stared at him for a few moments before answering. "I wasn't there." His voice was low and gruff. He drained another glass of wine. "I wasn't there to help you save him, and he nearly died. I should've been there. Of all of us, I should've been there."

"Of all of us, you had the most cause not to be," Athos pointed out fairly. He had been furious when he first found Porthos, mad with worry that Aramis would do himself some harm in his delirium, but that had passed. He felt no anger towards his friend now. Rather, he sympathized with him. Athos knew what it was to be lied to. He also knew his friends would work this out eventually, but Porthos needed to stop moping and get angry again. Anger was healthy. Self-hate would get them nowhere. "He lied to you. Broke his promise. You had every right to leave. No one, least of all Aramis, will hold that against you."

"It's not just the leaving, Athos," Porthos muttered, staring fixedly into his cup. "You remember what I said to you that night? That he _deserved_ it." He shook his head, a disgusted expression marring his usually jovial features. "I'm supposed to love him, protect him, and I ran out on him. I let him think I hated him. I was mad as hell, yeah, but I didn't want him dead. Not really. And then those guards said he was gone and I hadn't helped, hadn't done anything to save him, hadn't even said goodbye-" Porthos broke off for a moment, then pushed on, as if getting it all out at once was easier than slowing down. "I never want to spend another night feeling like I did in that jail cell, Athos."

And he understood, oh, how he understood, but this was so different. He was to blame for all that Anne had become, but Porthos's guilt was empty and assumed. He wouldn't let his friend follow him down that road.

"I knew you did not mean it even then, Porthos," he told him quietly. "And from what Treville told me, you did not do nothing. You searched for us. When you did not find us, you went to the Châtelet. You went to Treville for help when you learned Aramis had been injured, and when he could not aid you, you went to the Court. Tell me, what did you do there?"

"Tried to orchestrate a breakout," Porthos said, one corner of his lip twitching encouragingly.

"That hardly sounds like 'nothing' to me, " Athos pointed out. "That sounds like treason. Those are not the actions of a man who has any reason to be ashamed. Well, apart from almost breaking an oath to the king, which is of little relevance at the moment." Porthos managed a smile at the last comment.

"You were not the only one to be angry, my friend. When I found out, I seriously considered chucking our dear friend into the line of fire outside the convent. Or perhaps handing him over to the Mother Superior." He allowed himself a smile at the thought of what that intimidating old lady would've done to Aramis.

"You didn't abandon him, though," Porthos pointed out, frowning again.

"No," Athos admitted. "But I have had longer to adjust to the idea. Aramis made me no promises in regards to the queen. And ultimately, you did not abandon him. You were prepared to betray your country and your king to save him. So tell me, what is it you blame yourself for again? It seems to me the only one to blame is the Cardinal."

Porthos shot him a wry grin and Athos knew he was making progress. The self-loathing had drained from Porthos's eyes. But he needed to go a step further. Aramis owed Porthos an apology. Athos had seen the look on Porthos's face when he thought Aramis was dead. He had witnessed the mental agony Porthos endured because of Aramis's selfish actions. Aramis had been punished for his behavior, that was certain, but if he did not apologize, if Porthos did not demand an explanation, a wedge would be driven between them. Athos would not have the family he had built for himself crumble because Porthos's guilt made him too forgiving.

"Why didn't he tell me though?" Porthos asked softly, grin fading. "Why didn't he keep his promise?"

"I don't know why he did it. That is a discussion you must have with him. Let us hope he has a satisfactory answer." Porthos's eyes flashed with anger for a moment and Athos tasted victory. He should be angry. "As to why he did not tell you, that part is simple. He knew if he was found out, his life would be forfeit. And any of us who knew would be damned by association. It was too late to protect me, but I imagine Aramis would willingly die before becoming the reason you followed him to the gallows."

Porthos looked solemn, clearly mulling through everything that had been said. Athos wanted him to be angry, but he also wanted Porthos to understand Aramis's motivations for keeping the secret. It was a fine line. Anger him too much, he might not forgive Aramis. Conversely, too much understanding would drain his anger. But Athos sensed he had walked the line successfully. Aramis had a hard talk ahead of him, but if all went well he would ultimately be forgiven.

He drained his glass and set it down. They'd emptied one bottle. Grabbing the second, he rose to his feet. "Shall we return and share our bounty with D'Artagnan?" he asked, and Porthos rewarded him with an honest grin.

"Lad's probably worried sick about us. I bet he's bored out of his mind up there. Better go and save him." They made their way out of the bar. Athos could see a steely glint in Porthos's eye that had been missing before. He smiled grimly, a feeling of satisfaction creeping through him. Yes, Aramis would have some explaining to do.

* * *

**I'll try to get to that confrontation in the next chapter. The Red Guards receiving their just desserts will probably follow. After that, the story is almost over! Please let me know what you think so far!**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Sorry I didn't update yesterday! I'm being forced to split my time between my two ongoing stories since it turns out I'm not so great at multitasking. I'll be finishing this one tonight though, so I will definitely have a new chapter posted tomorrow. May or may not be the last one. Thanks to everyone who's been reading this story. Your support means so much to me!**

**There's a bit of cuddling in this chapter because ThorneofAcre wanted some love and cuddles before the inevitable argument. **

* * *

When they reached the door to Aramis's temporary room the sun was setting and they had already consumed almost half of the bottle of wine. Athos pushed through first and Porthos followed close on his heels, still clutching the bottle.

The first thing he noticed was that Aramis was awake. Not only awake, but staring at him like he wasn't sure he was truly there. Porthos's stomach twisted into a knot at the lost expression and some of his anger fizzled away. He knew Athos was right when he'd said Porthos had every right to be angry, but he got the feeling now was perhaps not the time to let it get the best of him. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure how he would have an argument with someone who couldn't even speak.

D'Artagnan had leapt to his feet as they entered and was already asking Athos where they'd been. He accepted the bottle from Porthos but Athos yanked it from his grasp before he could drink, walking over and handing it to Aramis, who wiggled upright and took a few sips, smirking at D'Artagnan's indignant expression. He kept his eyes carefully averted from Porthos after that first desperate look.

"Why didn't you bring any for me?" the boy, cried, turning on Athos, who ignored him, reminding Aramis to take small sips. Porthos could see that swallowing pained him, but he did not relinquish the wine.

D'Artagnan was demanding that someone go and fetch him some wine too when Athos sighed and rose, walking out. The three men remaining glanced at each other in mutual confusion. Then Athos reentered, bearing a fresh bottle of wine.

"Where did you even get that!" Porthos exclaimed. Aramis was chuckling weakly from the bed, obviously trying not to laugh out loud.

Athos shrugged. "I had it under my pillow, next to my dagger."

They all stared at him. "I don't know what's more concerning," D'Artagnan said at last. "That you sleep with a bottle of wine or with a dagger." Porthos and Aramis shared a glance, both aware that they each slept with a weapon. Porthos kept a dagger and Aramis had a small pistol shoved into the mattress of his bed. For a moment, they held each other's gaze, tension forgotten in the moment of levity. Then Aramis dropped his eyes as if scalded and Porthos sighed.

Athos's sharp eyes must have caught the silent exchange, for instead of handing D'Artagnan the bottle he waved it before the boy like a bone before a dog, stepping back towards the door. "Come. Aramis has been awake long enough. You and I can drink this in the other room. You'll stay?" he added, glancing at Porthos. As he nodded, he thought he saw an anxious expression cross Aramis's face, but a moment later he'd schooled his features into a smile of farewell.

Athos sent Porthos a pointed glance as he shoved D'Artagnan from the room, leaving them alone. All of a sudden Porthos felt very awkward. The room was almost perfectly silent; only Aramis's still-strained breathing broke the hush. Porthos didn't know how to fill the silence, so he simply pulled the chair over to the bed and sat down, cracking his knuckles. Aramis offered him the half empty bottle of wine as one would offer an olive branch. Porthos took it gratefully, taking a deep swing before passing it back.

Aramis shot him a tentative smile and Porthos echoed it, noting the way the injured man seemed to relax at the sight. He stretched a hand across the covers in a hesitant invitation, not quite breaching the gap between them. Porthos reached out and clasped it gingerly, careful of the broken fingers, and was rewarded with a broader smile.

They sat like that for a moment before Aramis tugged gently on his fingers. He looked up, curious. Very clearly, Aramis mouthed the words, "I'm sorry."

Porthos sighed deeply. "I know," he said, the words rumbling in his chest. "I am too. And once you can speak again, we have some things to discuss." Aramis's eyes flashed with fear and Porthos tightened his grip on his hand slightly. "As long as you are absolutely honest with me, you shouldn't have anything to worry about."

He was angry, and he would certainly be giving Aramis a serious dressing down, but he had already decided to forgive him. Not just yet, not until they had talked, but ultimately he knew he would not stay mad, and while part of him felt Aramis deserved a bit of uncertainty and worry, he was not so cruel as to let him think he was going to leave him. He'd surely thought that for long enough already.

Aramis nodded vigorously, wincing as the motion pulled at his injuries. Porthos reached out and flicked his cheek lightly. "Don't do that, idiot." Aramis shot him a dopey grin and Porthos laughed, sending a shooting pain through his cracked ribs. He spared a moment of gratitude that Aramis's were merely bruised, rather than broken. He was having enough trouble breathing as it was.

Something pressed against his hand and he glanced down to see that Aramis was offering him the bottle again. Nodding gratefully, he accepted it and downed a healthy gulp. Looking up, he noticed Aramis watching him through narrowed eyes. It was his 'doctor' face, and it did not bode well. He didn't need to know about Porthos's injuries.

Porthos shot him a casual grin and went to pass the bottle back. Unfortunately as he stretched his arm he yanked his stitches unpleasantly. He managed to conceal the pain with difficulty and was relieved when Aramis did not seem suspicious. Hopefully he would attribute the coughing to a missed breath or something.

Aramis was blinking at him tiredly now, so Porthos took the bottle and set it carefully on the floor. "Bedtime," he told the other man sternly. Aramis made a face at him but complied, sinking until he lay comfortably on the bed. He wasn't quite meeting Porthos's eyes, and it took him a minute to figure out what Aramis was blatantly not asking.

"Budge up," he told him, shoving gently at Aramis's hip to illustrate his meaning. Aramis failed to conceal his pleased expression as he shifted carefully to the side. The slight motion left him gasping in a worrying manner, but his breathing was already settling as Porthos carefully clambered in beside him, wrapping him in his arms with a sigh.

He was still angry, truly, but it could wait until morning. Tonight he didn't want to be angry, whatever Athos said. He just wanted to remember that the worst had not happened despite how close they had come. Aramis was alive and warm in his arms. He felt Aramis press his face against his neck and smiled as his breath tickled his collarbone. He pulled him closer. There would be time for anger tomorrow.

* * *

To Aramis's relief, waking the next morning was a less painful affair than it had been the previous day. Yes, his throat still burned like he had swallowed a fiery brand and yes, breathing required a greater effort than it ever had before, but at least it didn't feel like he was being strangled. He considered that a great improvement.

Porthos was still asleep. He could tell by his deep, even breaths and the faint snores that rumbled through him every few minutes. Aramis lay utterly still, not wanting to wake him just yet. It was an unspeakable relief just to be like this, to know that Porthos did not despise him, was not going to leave. He didn't deserve it, but he was beyond grateful. He'd been sure it was over when Porthos had stormed out of the Châtelet. Porthos wanted honesty? Aramis would tell him anything he wanted to know, even if he wanted a detailed account of just what it was he had done to the queen. Honesty seemed a small price to pay to keep Porthos standing by him.

His musings were interrupted as Porthos shifted in his sleep. Aramis tried and failed to move with him, and a moment later Porthos was blinking at him owlishly. He smirked at him, warmth coursing through him when Porthos smiled back. He was going to enjoy the good mood while it lasted. Who knew when Porthos would want to begin the inevitable shouting. Knowing he deserved it didn't prevent Aramis from wanting to avoid it as long as possible.

Porthos rolled out of bed. He seemed to be moving more stiffly than usual and Aramis watched him closely. He couldn't see anything the matter, though that didn't mean there wasn't something troubling him. _Not like I can ask,_ he thought with a trace of bitter impatience. Not being able to talk was infuriating.

"I've got to run down and get some breakfast from the mess hall," Porthos told him, struggling to pull on a boot. "Be back in a minute."

Aramis pushed himself up and waved a hand urgently to get Porthos's attention. He carefully mimicked writing in the air, staring hard at Porthos. Thankfully he was quicker on the uptake than D'Artagnan. "You want paper? Ink?" he asked, and Aramis nodded, pleased to be understood. It would be nice to be able to communicate without resorting to charades.

Porthos disappeared through the doorway with a promise to find some on his way back. Taking advantage of his absence, Aramis managed to haul himself from the bed, dragging a small chamber pot out from beneath it with his foot. He had not wanted Porthos around for this!

By the time Porthos returned he was back in bed and his gasping breaths had evened out once more. He could tell instantly that something was different and his smile of welcome fell from his lips. Porthos's face was a thundercloud. He handed Aramis a bowl of broth soundlessly and tossed paper and a pot of ink on the table. He hadn't fetched any food for himself.

Aramis reached for the ink but stopped short when Porthos glared dangerously at him. Meekly he began on his broth, trying to ignore the pain that burst through him with each swallow. He polished off most of the bowl, not so much out of hunger as a desire not to antagonize Porthos, who was watching him broodingly. When he was finished, he grabbed the paper and ink, unstoppering it with difficulty. Porthos did not offer to help. He spread the parchment in his lap and dipped the quill into the ink, grateful his broken fingers were on his left hand and not his right.

Carefully, he wrote, "What is wrong?" on the sheet in large letters and tipped it towards Porthos, whose mouth tightened into a thin line.

For a moment he worried Porthos would say nothing, but instead he ground out, "Ran into Athos downstairs."

Aramis frowned at him, raising his eyebrows to ask, "And?"

"And he gave me this to return to you," Porthos growled, yanking something from his pocket and tossing it at Aramis. It landed on his chest and he glanced down to see gold glinting in the light. The queen's gift. _Ah_.

"Athos thought you might want it back," Porthos went on relentlessly. "Course, why wouldn't you want it, eh? It's a trophy. I should've realized." He shook his head, a disgusted expression on his face.

It wounded Aramis that Porthos would think him so crude as to keep trophies, but he didn't have time to write a response. Porthos was still speaking.

"Why her, Aramis?" His voice was strained with anger. "Of all the women you could have, why her? Was it that she was forbidden? All those other women that would have you, ones I couldn't care less if you slept with, and you had to take the one you swore you would keep away from! Why?" The words sounded like they were torn from deep within Porthos. Aramis did not even try to write. He sensed that Porthos was not looking for answers, not yet. He needed to be angry first.

"Why would you even make that promise if you couldn't keep it! How could you sleep with the bloody Queen of France! Does your neck mean so little to you that you would risk it for a pretty face, a quick fuck?" Porthos was on his feet, shouting as he loomed over Aramis. "Did you even think about where I would be if you got yourself hanged?"

Even as he yelled the final words, Porthos seemed to deflate slightly. "I need to get out of here," he muttered. "I'll be back in a bit."

The panic that seized Aramis at those words was anything but rational. All he could think was that it was like the prison all over again. With all his strength he lunged from the bed and latched on to Porthos's arm as he turned to go. There was a familiar tearing noise, and suddenly Aramis felt warm blood under his hand as Porthos hissed in pain, wrenching his arm away and dragging Aramis onto the floor with a thump.

* * *

**How much longer should Porthos yell at Aramis? I don't want there to be too much anger because I just want them to be happy, but I don't want Aramis getting off too easily either. Let me know what you think. Reviews make me smile :)  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: So this is the last full chapter of the story. I hope you've all enjoyed it!**

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Aramis lay frozen for a moment, mind not quite comprehending what had just happened. He took in the blood on Porthos's sleeve, the blood now staining his own hands, and felt lightheaded. Though that could also have something to do with the fact that he was no longer getting any air at all. He was crumpled in a heap on the floor, trying to suck oxygen into lungs that seemed to have sealed closed.

Gentle hands were on him, rolling him over, sitting him up against the bed. Porthos was hunched over him, misery on his face, murmuring anxious apologies. Aramis managed to suck in a lungful of air and waved a hand, trying to convey that Porthos was not to blame. His head stopped spinning as his breathing gradually evened out.

Porthos was still watching him with concern but Aramis ignored him, grabbing his arm and yanking it towards him. Porthos didn't resist, likely worried that he would hurt Aramis further. Frowning, Aramis rolled back his sleeve and inspected the wound on his arm. The stitching had torn, but considering how poorly it had been done to start with, at least by his standards, that was hardly surprising. _Where did this come from?_ He felt vaguely sickened by the knowledge that he'd caused Porthos pain.

Aramis looked up at Porthos and then pointedly back down at the wound. "You can't be serious," Porthos muttered, catching on at once. Aramis raised a stern eyebrow, glaring daggers. Porthos rubbed a hand over his face and helped Aramis back onto the bed before rummaging through a pile of medical supplies on the table. He returned after a moment and passed Aramis a needle and thread, sitting meekly beside the bed as Aramis attempted to thread the needle without jarring his broken fingers.

When at last the needle was threaded, Aramis shifted to get the angle right, pausing just before sticking the needle through the wound. He carefully set it down and grabbed the quill. "Wine?" he scrawled hastily, and Porthos shook his head.

"I'll get it after." So he was still going to leave then. Aramis tried to ignore the way his stomach plummeted and focused on the wound. It was long but not deep, sewed shut by someone with some skill but done hastily. Aramis had to carefully pull out the old stitches before he could begin sewing it up, shaking his head at the state of it.

"D'Artagnan did it," Porthos huffed, voice tight with pain. Aramis glanced at he wound, considering. It wasn't that bad a job, really. Perhaps he should offer D'Artagnan more extensive training. He finished sewing the wound in under a minute but realized with a jolt he couldn't tie it off with his fingers broken. He tried valiantly but ended up tugging the thread in a way that had Porthos letting out a stream of curses and trying to jerk away. Aramis stopped, trying to figure out how he could manage this.

A clatter on the stairs provided an answer to his predicament. Athos came striding in, probably alerted by Porthos's loud swearing. "What happened here?" he asked, taking in Aramis's guilty expression and Porthos's sullen one.

"Ripped the stitches," Porthos muttered.

"When don't you?" Athos sighed. He came over without waiting for an answer, nudging Aramis's hands to the side and neatly tying off the thread. "There." Porthos nodded his thanks and rose to his feet. Aramis fought the urge to grab him again as he walked straight for the door.

"Will you stay a minute? I need some wine," Porthos grunted. He vanished before Athos could answer.

Athos looked at Aramis, a question in his eyes, but Aramis turned his head away, reaching for the paper. "What happened to him?" he scrawled, handwriting untidy in his haste.

Athos looked him over appraisingly, clearly debating how much to tell. "He got in a fight with some Red Guards," he said at last. "He'd gone to visit you in prison and found you unconscious." Aramis started. Porthos had come to visit him? He remembered lying semi-conscious in his cell, thinking someone was calling his name. Had that been Porthos?

"He attacked your guards and got thrown out. When Treville couldn't help, he went to the Court to plan a rescue. But then he ran into some Red Guards who told him he was too late. He didn't know we had already saved you. He thought you were dead." Athos's eyes were boring into his, demanding that he understand. "He killed a few and they threw him in a cell overnight."

Aramis felt sick. Because of him, Porthos had been injured and thrown alone into prison thinking Aramis was dead. How could he ever have thought Porthos wouldn't care? He didn't want to imagine having to go through that, thinking Porthos was dead and he hadn't saved him. He might just have ended it right there.

Athos had fallen silent and made no move to speak again. Aramis struggled to contain the guilt now knowing away at his heart, desperately wishing he could turn back time and take back his terrible mistake.

He clenched his hands together in his lap and stared at them in misery. He could see the chain glinting on the floor where it had fallen, but he had no desire to pick it up. Part of him wanted to rage at Athos for reminding Porthos of it in the first place, but he knew Athos was not to blame. Sighing, he bent stiffly and slipped it into his pocket, where it rested like a lead weight, a tangible reminder of his guilt.

* * *

Porthos knew he should go back, but he needed a few minutes to clear his head. Anger and guilt were now warring with each other for dominance, mixed with a fair amount of pain, and Porthos needed to straighten himself out before he spoke to Aramis again. He tried to forget the look on the other man's face when he had left the room.

He grabbed a bottle of wine from the stash Athos had hidden behind a false panel in the mess hall and downed half of it in a matter of seconds. It dulled the ache in his arm and chest and helped ground him. Sighing deeply, he leaned against the wall. When Athos had handed him the cross, he'd been tempted to toss it in the Seine, but instead he'd thrown it in Aramis's face. He could see now he had been a little unfair to call it a trophy. Aramis was many things, but he was not disrespectful to the women he had affairs with. He was not the kind of man to keep trophies.

Porthos groaned, banging his head against the wall. Great. Now he needed to apologize.

Grumbling to himself, he took another swig of wine. _Not before Aramis explains himself_, he thought mutinously. _I won't apologize until I get a satisfactory explanation._ _Though,_ he amended sheepishly, _I probably should apologize for dropping him on the floor._

Nodding, he straightened. He felt better with most of a bottle of wine in his system and a plan of action. He would give Aramis a chance to explain and rein in his temper until he heard the whole story. He would not storm out again.

He saw D'Artagnan in the yard but didn't stop to speak with him, heading straight back to the room. He jerked his head at the door as he entered and Athos left at once. He then turned his attention back to Aramis, who was watching him like a mouse watches a cat. There was a kind of relief on his face that sent shame burning through Porthos once more. Of course. Aramis associated storming out with the incident in the Châtelet. Another reason not to do it again.

Aramis was writing before he sat down. "How are your injuries?" the paper read, the letters shaky, nothing like Aramis's usual elegant hand.

"Athos told you about what happened?" A nod. "I'm fine." A skeptical look. "Really, Aramis, I'm fine. It's nothing to worry about. And you?" he asked, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "You alright?"

Aramis nodded. He began writing something else. After he finished, he reached a hand into his pocket and grabbed something, passing it to Porthos as he turned to paper towards him. It was the queen's cross. "I don't want it anymore," it read. "Get rid of it."

Part of Porthos wanted to throw the damn thing out the window at once, but a larger part told him this wasn't the solution. He set it on the table. "No, Aramis. It was a gift. I think you should keep it."

"It isn't a trophy," Aramis wrote, his eyes sad.

"I know. I didn't mean that." It wasn't an apology, but it would do for now. He had said he would get an explanation first. "Why did you do it, Aramis? Why did you sleep with the queen? You swore you wouldn't. Did you simply take leave of your senses? Was it because she is young, or beautiful, or clever?"

Aramis looked thoughtfully at the parchment for a moment and Porthos knew he was considering his words carefully. Then he began to write, his hand flying across the page, filling it rapidly. Porthos raised his eyebrows in surprise. Apparently he was getting a long explanation.

At last Aramis finished and passed Porthos the parchment. "I did not plan to sleep with her. At the convent I found a girl I once knew. We were to be married, but she had fled. I found out she had left because she thought I was not suited for marriage. She had been pregnant and lost the baby. She had hidden herself intentionally from me. Her words were painful, but then she was killed and I couldn't ask her further what she meant. The queen saw I was in pain. She offered comfort. I was weak. I accepted it. I'm sorry."

In those lines Aramis had offered more about his past than he had ever openly told Porthos at once in all the time he had known him. Porthos stared at the page, thinking hard. This out everything in a new perspective for him. The information didn't absolve Aramis of his sins, but the knowledge that he had been emotionally compromised gave Porthos pause. He'd never known about this girl, but if Aramis had been planning to marry her it must have been serious. He wasn't surprised Aramis had taken comfort where it was offered.

Another piece of parchment slid into his hands. "You were not there. She was. I knew it was a mistake by the next morning, but then it was already too late. I would it were undone."

Porthos let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Aramis operated on a very physical level. When confronted with negative emotions, he needed something to affirm his existence, and he found it through love-making. He remembered how it had been after Savoy. Porthos couldn't fault him for that, but he couldn't forgive the lie yet either.

"Did it have to be her, Aramis?" he asked, voice harsher than he had intended. "Did it have to be the one woman in France you promised to stay away from?" He sighed heavily. "I made you swear to keep away so you wouldn't get yourself hanged. And look what nearly happened! Do you have any idea what you put me through? What am I supposed to do if someone finds out about you and her? Endure your death all over again?"

Aramis made a small sound of protest, but Porthos didn't look at him, staring down at his hands. "I can't do that again, Aramis," he said, a lump forming in his throat. "I can't-" He stopped, trying to swallow. This was what it boiled down to, he knew. It wasn't that Aramis had lied or kept things from him, it was the fact that he had risked his life so carelessly, for so pointless a reason.

"I'm sorry." Porthos's head snapped up because Aramis had spoken out loud, his voice nothing more than a scratchy whisper. He was staring directly at Porthos, eyes full of regret and unspoken pleading.

_Ah. Shit. That look_. Porthos could never stay angry when Aramis looked at him like that. But then again, his anger was already evaporating, wasn't it? It was the echoes of fear and despair that now sat on his chest like a pile of bricks and made it hard to speak.

"Porthos," Aramis spoke again but broke off, coughing. He proceeded to write instead, slipping the paper into Porthos's hands. "I'm sorry. I should have thought before I acted. It wasn't fair of me to put you in that position. I never meant for it to get so out of hand. I should not have lied."

Porthos blew out a breath. "You can't ever do that again," he said gravely. "You stay away from the queen from now on, alright? And if you ever lie to me about something like this again, I'll throttle you myself." With that, he passed the golden cross back to Aramis. "You should keep this. It was a gift. I don't mind."

Aramis stared at him for a long moment before comprehension dawned in his eyes. "You- you forgive me?" he rasped.

Porthos's mouth quirked up in a grin. "I must be a madman, but yes, I forgive you." He saw what Aramis was going to do a moment before he did it and managed to keep them both off the floor as Aramis launched himself at him, burying his face against his chest. He thought he heard Aramis whisper weakly, "I don't deserve you," but he couldn't be sure because Aramis was gasping for breath in between bouts of relieved laughter. Porthos shook his head in exasperation.

"I thought you had more dignity than this," he teased gently, feeling warmth spreading through his body as Aramis smiled adoringly up at him. Porthos dropped his head and kissed him soundly, smiling despite himself as Aramis responded enthusiastically. He rose and propelled them both backwards onto the bed.

There was still anger within him, and it would be some time before it dissipated entirely, but Porthos had come too close to losing Aramis to cling to rage. He wasn't going to hold a grudge and lose any time with him, not when there would always be the risk of discovery hanging over his head. He would stand by Aramis no matter what came of his affair. Porthos couldn't stop the king or the Cardinal from finding out, but he knew one thing: if Aramis ever faced the noose again, he would be right there with him.

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**There will be a brief epilogue to tie up all the loose ends. I wouldn't leave you hanging :) Sorry, I'm terrible. Please let me know what you thought of it!**


	11. Epilogue

**AN: And that's a wrap! Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, or followed this story. This is the most support I've ever received on a fic and I'm simply blown away by all the nice things you've had to say. An extra special thank you to ****See Me As I Am 101**** and ThorneofAcre, whose long and wonderful reviews have been a constant source of encouragement. **

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Porthos was practically dancing with excitement. "It's indecent to be so pleased about a whipping, love," Aramis whispered, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. Porthos glanced over at him, eyes sparkling.

"They deserve everything they're going to get," he whispered back fiercely, and under his mirth there was an edge of steel. Treville shot a stern glance over his shoulder and they both put on blank expressions, laughter still shining in their eyes.

It had been two weeks since Aramis's near execution, and this was the first time Porthos and the others had allowed him outside for more than a short period, mostly because Athos had insisted he deserved to witness this.

The King had not taken kindly to the slander and attempted framing of one of his Musketeers. The poisoning of the Comtesse de Mironne in her own chambers had proved, in his mind, that it was all a massive conspiracy against Captain Treville and his men. King Louis was appalled that he had stood with a traitorous Comte against one of his own loyal Musketeers. He now stood more staunchly behind Treville than ever before, offering a royal apology to Aramis on behalf of the Crown and covering all medical expenses from the Treasury. He had been furious to hear how the Red Guards had treated Aramis, and later Porthos, while they were imprisoned and had ordered Cardinal Richelieu to have them punished in a very public ceremony that the king himself was attending.

So here they stood in the hot sun as one by one Aramis's abusers were led out and tied to the whipping post. This was actually a lenient punishment as far as things went. The king had wanted to have them all executed, but Treville had urged a less extreme punishment, knowing that Richelieu would be in his debt.

Richelieu was watching the proceedings with a dispassionate expression. Aramis itched to take the whip to the man who had framed him, who had orchestrated the attack on Savoy, who had tried to murder the queen. But Treville and Athos were already devising some secret plan to reveal Richelieu's treachery to the queen herself. All Aramis needed to do was be patient. He turned his gaze back to the spectacle before them.

By the time it was over, Aramis's good mood had begun to fade along with his energy. He could breathe normally now but he still didn't have his full strength back, which was why he was rather relieved when the whippings were over and the guards were dragged off groaning.

The four of them headed to the Wren once they were dismissed, piling in around a small table in the back. A pretty barmaid winked at D'Artagnan as she delivered their drinks, making the boy blush scarlet and the others laugh. She'd smiled at Aramis too, and then had come the moment he was beginning to get used to. Her eyes dropped to his neck and widened, taking in the still livid scar that encircled his throat.

This had been happening ever since the bandages were removed a week ago. Among them, only Porthos could look at the mark without flinching. Athos seemed to see past Aramis whenever he glimpsed it, and D'Artagnan had trouble keeping his eyes on it for more than a moment at a time, especially the fainter scar that crossed it diagonally. It had bothered him immensely in the beginning, especially when he saw it for himself in the looking glass Constance had loaned him. She had no trouble with the scar either, merely fussing over him when he first turned up and then accepting it in her stride.

The scar was a bright red at the moment, but Aramis knew it would fade in time. It had initially wounded his vanity to have such an unsightly scar in plain view, but he was too proud to hide it. Porthos's fervent reassurances that it did not detract from his looks had gone a long way toward soothing his ruffled feathers, and now he wore it with pride, holding his head high and refusing to allow the stares of others to bother him. Even now he winked at the young barmaid. To his delight, she blushed as brightly as D'Artagnan and walked away with an extra spring in her step.

"Told you all the ladies still love you," Porthos muttered in his ear, grinning. Aramis laughed and poured the wine for everyone. Porthos grabbed his glass and rose to his feet, holding it up. "A toast!" he cried grandly. "To the luckiest bastard alive!"

"Lucky only in my friends," Aramis amended, smiling as they all drank. They stayed in the bar for most of the evening, laughing and celebrating their good fortune. Eventually, Porthos rose and tugged Aramis to his feet, telling the others they would see them tomorrow.

"You're exhausted. I can tell," Porthos informed him as they stumbled into the street. They had perhaps drank a bit too much. Supporting one another, they made it back to Aramis's lodgings, which were closest. Constance had taken it upon herself to clean and rearrange his chambers for him, and there was no sign now that there had ever been a disturbance.

He flopped heavily onto the bed, dragging Porthos down with him, glad that his lover's ribs were healing without a hitch. Porthos lay pressed up against him, smiling suggestively. Aramis rolled towards him, but as he did so the cross around his neck caught on the blanket and tugged. He choked and yanked at it desperately. For one moment he was back on that platform, noose around his neck…

The next Porthos had pulled the chain from his neck and let it fall to the floor. "It's alright, love, you're fine," he murmured softly. Aramis put a hand to his throat, feeling the raised line of the fresh scar.

"Sorry," he gasped, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. Porthos caught his fingers, moving his hand away from the mark.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," he said sternly. "That's not something you'll forget in a hurry. Just take deep breaths, alright?" Aramis obeyed, feeling his heartbeat gradually return to normal.

"I'm okay," he muttered at last, relaxing into the protective circle of Porthos's arms. Porthos pulled him closer, raising one hand to trace along the scar himself. Somehow when Porthos did it, he didn't mind at all.

"It'll fade," he whispered. "But even if it doesn't, I'll still love you." Aramis nodded, unable to speak for a moment as gratitude and love overwhelmed him. Porthos moved his hand from his neck to his face, running his index finger down the bridge of his nose. Aramis raised an eyebrow at him.

"Told myself I ought to break this for all the trouble you put me through," he told him cheerfully, tapping his finger against the arch of Aramis's nose. "I won't!" he added, seeing Aramis's rather alarmed look. Rolling his eyes, Aramis allowed Porthos to pull him in for a kiss which gave way to much more.

Three weeks later when Porthos broke his nose in a sparring match, Aramis just glared.

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**I decided to let the end of this story bleed into a lead up for the final episode. Thus, Milady is off to plot Athos's death and the Musketeers are trying to figure out how to expose the Cardinal. I'm now off to work on my other ongoing story. I would love to hear what you all think of the ending and this fic as a whole. It was great fun writing it and reading your lovely responses! **


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